Chiaroscuro
by Ikonopeiston
Summary: Backstory for Nooj - The first four months after the fatal encounter with Sin
1. Chapter One

Chiaroscuro  
  
This is about one third of the first chapter of what started out to be a short story and grew, like Topsy, into a thing that is now in excess of 86K words. As it passed through the alembic of my mind, it transformed into something that Square-Enix would never recognize. So I changed all the names and locations and permitted it to follow the course it had found for itself in my own invented world. For the purposes of posting it here, I have changed names, etc. back to the ones in FFX-2 and attempted to reset the scene in the old familiar Spira. Please be kind enough to forgive any details I may have overlooked.  
  
Formal disclaimer: I own a lot of things but FFX-2 isn't among them. It belongs to Square-Enix.  
  
Chapter One  
  
"Is he alive?"  
  
"Only in a technical sense."  
  
The operating theatre was filled; the seats behind the glass walls crowded with the governing elite of Spira, curious to learn why they had been hastily summoned to so unlikely a venue. In the well of the theatre, starkly illuminated by a glaringly white work light, was a metal gurney bearing the body of what had been a tall man, powerfully built but now torn and broken like a toy discarded by a careless child. Blood and the grime of battle compounded the impression that this had never been a living creature but was only a pacifist's puppet designed to dramatize the horrors of war.  
  
Standing alongside the gurney, wielding a long pointer, was Gaing, an Al Bhed surgeon/technician whose unconventional theories had generated a certain amount of controversy among the doyens of his profession, his tanned skin contrasting dramatically with the white scrub suit that was his usual wear. "As you can see," he said, tracing a path on his subject as he lectured, "the main blow fell here on this side of the chest. The left arm was immediately vaporized along with the left lung and a portion of the shoulder. The heart was also destroyed."  
  
"Then how does he live, even technically?" The interrogator was Quoin, a sour-visaged member of the Council of Maesteri.  
  
"Four White Mages seized him in a stasis spell before he hit the ground and he was transferred here as soon as possible and connected to this." The pointer touched the small rounded black box that lay close to the body with tubes and wires extending into the awful opening of the wound. "This is the latest model of our internal pump, an implantable machina which both circulates and aerates the blood. It functions as a heart, preventing the deterioration of the brain and other tissues. We have made it smaller and more efficient and have been having a great deal of success with this version, which is less likely to be rejected than the older, larger device. But - to continue - the pressure from the attack has damaged the eyes; to what extent we do not yet know but we hope not badly. It also struck the left leg..." Here the pointer moved down to the lower body. The remains of the upper thigh dissolved into a scarlet mélange of torn muscle and splintered bone, tapering off into nothing.  
  
"Are we here to look at another dead body? I didn't know the Council was summoned to an autopsy and frankly, I wouldn't have come if I had known; my digestion isn't up to this kind of exhibition. Are we supposed to comment on your skills as a teacher as we watch this ... this object finish dying? Or do you perhaps have a purpose in this demonstration?" the Maester asked.  
  
Gaing sighed audibly, "Yes, I have a purpose for calling you into consultation. I can save this man – give him his life back. But I would like to have the blessing of the church before I start."  
  
Quoin gaped. "You have a reputation for making wild claims for yourself but this exceeds even your audacity. You think you can put life back into this ... this corpse?"  
  
"Yes, we can implant the machina heart, construct a new rib cage and lung – I have a prototype for a radically new method of doing that – and attach the most advanced machina limbs which are just being refined by our engineers. There is no reason he shouldn't live."  
  
"But is there a reason why he should? We have rejected machina as a matter of principle, why change now? And there are thousands who have died in this war; why go to such extremes to save this one? Surely, if we are to compromise our faith, there are less drastically injured cases that could more likely benefit from your talents." Quoin was skeptical.  
  
"This one, as you term him, is special," the voice from the gallery spoke with deep authority, "Less than a month ago you were all in the reviewing stand when I pinned Spira's highest honor on that chest. ... You've heard the news from Mount Gagazet ... You know who is said to have died there..."  
  
Quoin interrupted, "Nooj? This can't be Nooj. It's nothing like him."  
  
"This is Nooj – Nooj, the Undying."  
  
"Undying? Apparently not," Rebant, the youngest Maester smoothly sneered. "Are we in the resurrection business now?"  
  
"Don't be naïve, Rebant. How many people actually know what happened there at the end? All we have to do is change the story – substitute badly wounded for dead and announce we're making every effort to nurse him back to health. That way, if Gaing here is right, we are the benevolent saviors of the hero of the battle of Mount Gagazet and if the implants fail – well, at least we tried. We need the support of the public now. Don't you listen to the news? The War is not going well." The bulky man, the Obermaester Mounfar – head of the priestly Council - made a warning gesture, "We need to save him if we can. He'll be our most potent weapon on the domestic front if we can keep him alive and use him to influence the mobs and the army."  
  
"I can't recognize that man down there; are you sure you have Nooj? I've heard that he was definitely killed in that campaign. You may have a hard time convincing the newsmongers that he is alive when they've all printed his obituary. And, moreover, even if he is who you say and can be saved, will he be able to lead the fight for us again? Will he be worth our investment?" Quoin continued to be dubious.  
  
"It's Nooj; I'm sure of that and his future doesn't matter. The important thing is what the masses think we are doing. This is the most dramatic action we can take and the one with the most potential pay-off. Saving a real hero from certain death.... It's all in the image – even a child knows that. Haven't you learned anything at all since you've been on this Council?"  
  
"But the expense..."  
  
"Is worth it. I will pay." It was a woman's voice, dry and cynical.  
  
"LeBlanc! And your reward for this generosity?"  
  
"Access." She answered flatly and did not elaborate.  
  
"Done. Then, if we are agreed...Gaing, you may proceed," Mounfar ordered with a thoughtful look at the woman, LeBlanc.  
  
"Thank you; I shall inform you when the first surgeries are complete."  
  
"We are not agreed. I most vigorously protest this costly experiment." The speaker was female, one of a small minority on the Council. "You've offered no justification for your decision and I insist that you reconsider. You are committing us to an act that is simultaneously profligate and unethical... That's quite a trick, even for you."  
  
"Is preserving a life so unethical, Maestress Dida?" asked Mounfar.  
  
"When it is a burden and not a grace. This Al Bhed came to us to request permission of the church to perform his experiments. And we're giving it to him without even discussing whether or not it's a moral act. I believe it is immoral to proceed in this without the consent of the one most affected. This man is not a laboratory animal and - face the truth – he's dead and incapable of consent. Let him go without further mutilation."  
  
Rebant, who fancied himself a wit, called out, "Cheer up, Dida, the implants may not work. Maybe he'll stay dead anyway."  
  
"You're an idiot! We are the Council of Spira and have standards to uphold. If we permit this act, let alone authorize it, we will have relinquished our right to govern in the name of God. We will have become worse than what we are fighting. Someone must set limitations or we become barbarian. Think! It's one thing to use prostheses like arms or legs and quite another to return life to a dead man, and – no matter how you dress it up – that's what you're planning to do."  
  
"He's not dead, Dida." Insisted Normath, another of the senior Maesteri.  
  
"He's not breathing; he has no pulse. What do you call it – rest and recuperation?"  
  
Gaing interrupted the priestly bickering, "I wish you would see the humane purpose of this attempt. If I can save this one, we'll have learned how to preserve others like him. We won't have to lose so many of our strongest in our wars."  
  
Dida leapt like a tigress, "So, you intend to make life even cheaper? Oh – you're a great humanitarian."  
  
His voice heavy with exasperation, Mounfar ruled, "I have never been able to understand if you are more concerned with the ethical or the financial consequences of a dilemma; however in this case it doesn't matter. This woman, LeBlanc, has offered to bear the costs instead of the government. And the ultimate decision on ethics is mine. So...I have taken thought and it is enough; I am the Obermaester, the voice of God. Gaing, you have our consent and blessing."  
  
Quoin waved his hand, "I have one more question. If the heart mechar'- thing will aerate the blood, why do you need to replace the lung? Surely the less surgery the better."  
  
With a grimace of impatience the Al Bhed surgeon responded, "In order to talk he must have breath. After all, one of the reasons we are doing this is so you can use him for propaganda."  
  
"And another reason is so you can try out your pretty new toys." Rebant laughed.  
  
Gaing looked up at the Maesteri in disbelief. They were bickering about little things that had nothing to do with the miracle he was proposing to perform. When that LeBlanc woman had approached him, realizing that he was the only man on Spira who could do this, he had expected more enthusiasm and credit. But the Council had turned out to be as orthodox in its outlook as the senior surgeons– they all lacked any appreciation for progressive or innovative science. He turned back to the gurney with a snort, fixing his attention on the bloody unpromising form before him. This was the most rare of moments; he had the man not five hours after his apparent death, frozen in stasis and held stable by the most efficient machina. How many surgeons got an opportunity like this? He could intervene before more harm had been done and, with nothing to lose, could take the chances necessary to prove his theories. It was a glorious puzzle and for a change he had the financial backing and the permission to start reassembling it. He had judged so well - opting not to clean the body before presenting his case to the Council. If those risk-averse priestly politicians had seen the grayish pallor of the skin, the true extent of the massive wounds, they would never have believed that he could return this man to life. With a brusque gesture, he summoned his team to begin washing Nooj's body and cutting away the clothing left by the attack while he bent to the fascinating task of resurrection. 


	2. Chapter One Part Two

Chapter One – Part Two  
  
Spira had never been a peaceful world and in the past decade or so it had become more violent than ever. Contending forces constantly swept across the plains and low hills, surging, falling back only to regroup and surge again. The only changes were in the number of the dead and the sophistication of the weapons used.  
  
Mounfar pondered his most recent decisions. As Obermaester, his was the responsibility of binding together the disparate needs and passions of the people under his governance, driving them all in the direction necessary for their survival. He had, during his term of office, reconstituted the army, using mercenaries principally as commanders while filling the ranks with the more troublesome of the common herd and then hurling the larger, unified force at a single foe. It was he who had that discovered Sin, the eternal foe, was perfectly suited to fill the role of universal enemy and had established a permanent War to accomplish that deed.  
  
All had gone as he intended until the Llyob suddenly sprang up seemingly from the void. Over a period of time, they had grown stronger and more adroit at using the fiends as weapons and it had been a long time since a major victory. The masses of Spira were becoming restive as they began to understand that they fought a mortal enemy who could be killed, not the elemental forces they had been trained to fear. When the Obermaester had seen that there was a danger of the people rousing from their trance of fear, he had moved decisively to reset the game board. It was an open secret among the Council that Sin could be, to a certain extent, manipulated. They had used the technique of baiting to choose the advantageous ground on numerous occasions. This time Mounfar had planned to stage a great spectacle, one that while not visible to the mass of the populace could be recorded and played back endlessly, one with drama and heroic acts and visible results.  
  
He had intended nothing less than a public exorcism of their great enemy at the crest of the highest mountain on the planet. Sin would be lured to the peak there to be confronted by a stellar cast of the most practiced Mages, the strongest and most courageous fighters and the Grand Summoner. The rite might or might not work, but it would certainly divert the mobs and buy some time. While the expedition ended in disaster, it had at least accomplished part of his goal – the populace was definitely diverted. Tragedy is almost as effective as victory in creating unity among disparate groups.  
  
Alone in his chamber, Mounfar stretched back in his throne-chair, his fingers steepled, and reassured himself, "It was the right thing to do today. What else could I have done when the whole thing went so wrong so fast? I never meant him to die on Mount Gagazet; he was supposed to come out the hero, the shield of the Summoner who sent Sin away.... Resurrection, there's the ticket. No, better than resurrection, - continuation. If his brain is still functioning, it's not really death." He considered that for the moment, found it good and continued. "This is exactly what we need – a symbol to cover us, to change the subject. Nooj is perfect; he's from that Warrior family – one of the trusted ones, the unbending ones. God must surely be looking after us to give us such a prize. What's more, he has caught the fancy of the mobs and they aren't so fickle as to abandon a genuine wounded hero who has given so much defending Spira. A wounded hero – the perfect choice to be Hierophant when we finally set up our new government. Kinoc won't have a chance. We'll install a warrior, a wounded veteran – you don't need arms and legs to govern, so it'll be all right. Plus, I just gave him a medal and have all those spheres of him accepting it – the ones that make him look like a modern legend. Legend indeed – reincarnation, resurrection – he'll wake up to find himself the best known, most idolized man this world has ever known. If he wakes up ... I will personally wring the neck of that surgeon- what's his name? – Gaing - if his gadgets don't work. ... What if his mind is gone or if the implants won't serve? Well, we didn't exactly announce what we're doing so we've lost nothing and I'll just have to find another way to reconcile the masses to us. It won't be for the first time."  
  
"Nooj, can you hear me? Can you understand me?"  
  
He stirred slightly and whispered, "Yes" in a voice that was thready and hoarse with disuse.  
  
"Give him some water, - now."  
  
He felt his head lifted by steady hands and the rim of a vessel touch his lips. He drank eagerly and sank back onto a firm slanted surface. His voice still rough but stronger, he asked, "... dead?"  
  
"No, you are in a hospital having your wounds cared for. How do you feel?"  
  
"Can't see?"  
  
"There was some slight damage to your eyes during the battle so they are lightly bandaged for protection." The answer was intended to be reassuring but somehow came out sounding devious. "You are not blind but we want to wait a little longer for your body to repair itself. Are you in pain?"  
  
"Yes... no, no matter. Sin ... Summoner..."  
  
"The Summoner is unharmed but Sin still exists. We are trying..."  
  
Nooj interrupted, his words growing stronger, "No... No! ...I remember...saw it ...arm, chest dissolve...felt death... can't be here...dead...where?" He struggled to move, reaching with his remaining hand toward his left side.  
  
"Quick, calm him," ordered the Al Bhed surgeon and the attendant healer sent a sedating spell toward the patient. Nooj slumped back and was still.  
  
Gaing turned to his audience, "We have, as you see, installed the heart and the lung together with the portion of the rib cage that was missing. As I planned, we attached the synthetic lung directly to the new ribs so that a larger surface could absorb oxygen and process it. This is an innovative technique that I expect to become standard as the advantages involved become more fully understood. Also, it is no longer necessary for him to actually expand..." He continued to explain his actions and their reasons.  
  
"...We arranged this demonstration primarily to make sure that the brain survived the initial trauma with sufficient acuity to make it worth the time and cost required to implant the other prostheses – the limbs; after all, these are prototypes and quite expensive." He bowed in the direction of LeBlanc and moved his pointer down to tap the now cleaned and sutured stump of the left thigh. "As you may note, we were able to salvage enough of the upper thigh to have somewhere to attach the machina leg. That will eliminate one of the major problems we have encountered in prosthetics for the lower limbs – the synthetic joint. The subject will be able to use his real hip to move his new leg, which should increase his mobility by several orders of magnitude.... Basically, I intend to use as much of the subject's own bone structure as possible and tie it into the prostheses with metal or ceramic rods screwed and glued into the bone. This will provide a strong and integrated unit which will be both permanent and adaptable." The pointer danced over the bandaged body. "Of course, in the shoulder area there is little bone remaining so I shall utilize the cage I constructed as a replacement for the missing ribs – the one to which I anchored the new lung - which is itself attached to what remains of the sternum, the posterior ribs and the spine. Difficult, but not impossible, as you will see. In so far as possible, I plan to connect the frayed nerve endings to the newly designed receptors I have developed to give the subject the ability to move the limbs mentally rather than with physical muscles alone. I don't know how much feeling the subject will regain in the areas, probably not much since we are using only somatic receptors which are simpler, but this is the beginning of fully natural replacement limbs in humans and, as such, will afford us a great deal of information about how to proceed. While we consider what we have accomplished already with this subject to be a revolutionary success even if the subject fails to survive, we shall continue our work and inform you further when it is complete, whatever the outcome." He turned toward the table only to be stopped by the scornful voice of the Maestress Dida.  
  
"Now will you admit I'm right? You demand that we note, see, admire what you've done so far with this exciting new construction kit we've given you. Well, we see all right. What we have all definitely seen is that you have abused not only your talents and our forbearance but also this man. We saw that his mind is clear and sharp and that he rejects what you are doing to him. We took note of his horror, his disgust at finding he has been used as an experimental object for the benefit of Al Bhed tinkering. What's more – since our last meeting in this room when you broached your loathsome plans, I have made it my concern to learn more about this man – Nooj. Yes," she stared directed at Mounfar, "he is a hero to the people of Spira and to the troops he has led into battle. But do you know why? Because he is fearless; because he courts death. You have taken the one man in our army who seemingly has no wish to live and done this to him. I would laugh at the irony were I not weeping from your cruelty."  
  
"What are you saying, Dida? Are you slandering him by calling him ..." Quoin could not say the word.  
  
"No, I've only said that he never took any care to preserve his life when he had it and doesn't seem all that grateful to still be among the living. And you, Gaing, actually tell us that you mean to continue to turn him into something you think will add to your glory. You want us to let you continue to carve away until you've tried out all your disgusting ideas. What are you planning eventually – the wholesale manufacture of soulless Cyborg warriors? Bah! You disgust me!" she stamped an angry foot.  
  
"What did you expect?" Quoin demanded testily. "Did you think he would wake up the first time understanding everything? The job's not done yet; the limbs aren't attached and he hasn't heard the explanations. Just wait – when he finds out that he's alive and not crippled, he'll be grateful. Things will look different to him when he can actually see what we've done for him. Of course, he's a little upset now; last time he was conscious, he was on Mount Gagazet, fighting Sin and not doing all that well. If he really remembers what happened up there, he's probably confused by this whole thing. Give him some time. He'll be happy enough when he realizes that he's still alive. Who wouldn't? You've misunderstood what you've heard. A man may be brave and reckless without being a ..."  
  
"In any case, the point is moot. What do you want us to do? Kill him? That won't be easy," drawled Rebant. "Not only do our ethics, which you enjoy citing to us, frown on actual murder, but that heart the Al Bhed installed is not so readily stopped."  
  
"You seemingly can't help being a fool, Rebant. Of course we can't murder him but we have such a concept as euthanasia." Dida never conceded an argument.  
  
"And that differs from murder just how?" Neither did Rebant, who considered them great fun.  
  
Gaing took a final disgusted look at the squabbling Council behind the glass and pulled the curtains shut against them. He and his by now seasoned team huddled over the figure before them and started the procedure that would implant the arm and leg and finish the puzzle. The surgeon sighed with satisfaction. This was going perfectly – the strong constitution of his subject had proved to be the ideal medium for the experiments he had planned for so long. He had implanted the replacement heart successfully in a number of cases but the design of the lung was a first as were the attachment methods he intended to use with the limbs. Unlike the older generation of prostheses that were removable, these limbs would be permanently connected to the body they served by the ingenious technique being pioneered by him and his team. With certain neural routings, they promised to be the most advanced of their kind, a genuine breakthrough. He had explained it roughly in layman's terms to the Council but they could never have understood the true genius of what he was preparing to do. He lifted his scalpel with the anticipation of a conductor raising his baton. If all went as well as the lung had apparently done, he would become the universally acclaimed greatest surgeon on Spira and could do whatever he wished. He hummed to himself as he thought of the obstacles to his research melting away in the sun of his success with this project. There would be money too – precious financing that would rid him of the necessity of doing the commonplace surgeries that had always bored him. The humming became a lilting whistle as he congratulated himself. It was a glorious thing to prove a point while giving a generous gift to humanity at large. That he would likely also become very rich just added a grace note to the composition. 


	3. Chapter One Conclusion

I spent an hour or so last night composing a graceful way to say 'goodbye' to the project of posting part of my novel on this site. With no reviews, I had assumed that what I was saying was of no interest to anyone except me. Thank you, Jessiy Landroz and Ms Imperfection, for your encouraging and helpful words; I shall take heart and slog on. Don't despair – some 'R- rated' material in on the distant horizon.  
  
Also be warned – AU will continue to creep in. There is no way I can totally exorcise it without re-writing the whole bloody book.  
  
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Chapter One – Conclusion  
  
"Wake up, Nooj. It's time to wake up, now." The words were soft but insistent and he could sense a glowing light though his lids. His first thought was that he was not blind, at least that had been truth. As from a dream, he remembered parts of his earlier awakening and the horror of that memory propelled him half way toward consciousness. It was difficult to open his eyes – the lids seemed burdened by the heaviness of the light pressing against them. He peered through his lashes, trying to understand where he was and what was happening. He was lying on a bed in a large brilliantly white room, his head slightly raised and sheets over his naked body. He could feel their weight on his right side but his left was numb and heavy.  
  
"Stupid," he thought dazedly, "Of course there's no feeling on my left side; it's gone." The memory of a catastrophe involving him glimmered briefly and then was gone. He became dimly aware of the presence of other people, all watching him intently. As his eyes began to focus, he recognized two members of his former Crusaders command and a faint smile tweaked his mouth. Turning his head on the pillow, he was conscious of the fuzziness of his vision and tried to blink it away as he strained to identify the other figures around the bed. Why couldn't he see them clearly? - He had always had the eyes of a raptor. From their voices, they were strangers to him, both the men and the women. He absently wondered what they were doing there.  
  
One of them, by his appearance, an Al Bhed, spoke. "Good morning, hero. Have we slept well? I trust we are feeling alert and vigorous this morning." An unfamiliar face loomed over him and he felt a curious sensation of anxiety at the sound of the almost familiar inflections. Raising his hand to fend off the stranger's approach, he felt it seized and cool fingers pressed against the pulse points of his wrist. He tried to pull away but was not strong enough to break the man's grip.  
  
His anxiety increased as his world seemed to spin and separate him into two beings - blending, parting - falling. His vision blurred more and he felt nauseated as he clutched at the linens with the hand his tormentor had finally released. It was as though he was suspended in a web of scrim between two dimly seen stage sets. In the one, he was hovering above a mountain peak, with spectral shapes moving and toppling – he couldn't remember precisely what had happened to him there but it had been terrible, unthinkable. On the other, he was in a white room with indistinct contours, his senses fogged and no connection to anything in the fragmented memories he could access. He tried to move but was frozen by weakness or a reluctance to choose either as reality.  
  
"Good morning, hero...." The words dragged out – impossibly slow and deep.  
  
Nooj felt a sudden surge of disgust for the man and turned away. An uncertainty was troubling his mind, a sense of something fundamentally wrong. With excruciating effort, he lifted his right arm and reached toward his left shoulder. There was something cold and hard where there should have been nothing at all. The messages from his fingers to his brain were making no sense that he could understand. Was there some sort of disconnect or had a head injury left him unable to interpret what his senses told him? A tsunami of fear washed over his consciousness, leaving him trembling and unwilling to risk further tests. Everything was strange – he had no reference for emotion of this sort. For a moment, he became vertiginous with the loss of presence. What had happened and where? He gathered his courage and with sudden decisiveness looked at the place his hand still rested. Where his left arm had been there was an articulated limb of metal and ceramic. He made an effort to lift it, to flex the hand but there was no response from the inert object at his side.  
  
"Raise the bed," he demanded hoarsely. He threw back the covers and looked for his left leg. It, too, was machina, rigid, motionless and foreign. With dawning horror, he touched that as well.  
  
"What have you done to me?" he howled in despair. "What have you done?"  
  
An injector spray stung his arm and, almost instantly, he felt a deadness possess him. Drugs, he thought with a helplessness that was foreign to his nature, not spells but drugs. As though the sedative had been the trigger, memory returned in a rush. He was cognizant of his body and what had happened to it. With a surge of relief, he knew that his mind was intact but that comfort was immediately overwhelmed by the recognition of his confinement in the rigid shell of this alien body. He had a purely animal urge to escape, to rid himself of the imprisoning limbs as a desperate beast would gnaw off the leg that was held in a trap. It was a nightmare to him – to Nooj. He knew his name now and that he had been a Warrior and had fallen on Mount Gagazet defending the Summoner. They had drugged him to control him, these strangers. If it had been spells, he knew ways to counteract them, but drugs...he struggled against the invisible chemical fetters holding him to the bed. Why were his old comrades letting this happen? Had he somehow become a dangerous lunatic that must be confined? At that moment, death seemed so desirable that he was sickened by the intensity of his longing. On Mount Gagazet when he felt death take him, he had embraced the darkness. He had reached the destination he had journeyed toward – the home, the womb, the comforting hearth. And now it had been snatched away; he was expelled into a coldly inhospitable world.  
  
He stopped trying to fight the medication since he could make only the most feeble physical resistance. Instead, he turned inward, hunting the truths of what had happened since he had felt himself die. Calling on skills practiced since boyhood, he stilled himself in order to understand his situation. Logically there was no way he could have survived the attack Sin had loosed and he had intercepted – so how did he live? Was this a fragment of a dream occurring in the eternal instant between death and dissolution?... With effort, he tried to retrace his reasoning but found that he could not follow his own mental processes; that path, too, was closed. With a bleak acknowledgement of the disorder persisting in his thoughts – his inability to focus his mind as well as his eyes, he surrendered to the exigencies of the moment. Confused and trapped, he turned his head away from the room and into the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut, his face shielded from prying stares by his right arm. He less heard than felt the attempted reassurance of the voices around him as they faded into an incoherent cacophony of buzzing against his ears.  
  
"The arm is designed to move very like a flesh and blood arm. You will learn to use it easily and naturally. We have come a long way in the development of replacement limbs..." "Captain, we are looking forward to having you back with us..." "It's not just an arm – it has a machina clavicle and...""Sin is still alive; we need your courage and leadership...." "You will find the heart has an estimated life of a century if we can just avoid having it ripped out, ha, ha......." "Your new rib cage is almost sixty percent stronger than the..." "We have ground spectacles to restore your vision to nearly what it was. Here try..." Slowly the comments died away altogether as the visitors, thinking he had fallen into the sudden sleep of the invalid, left the room. He shuddered and two unaccustomed tears forced their way from under his lids. Silently, he cursed his weakness as something inside him abruptly dissolved and reformed.  
  
"Nooj, it will be all right." It was a woman's voice and a woman's touch that called him back to full awareness. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand on his chest, where the human skin and the synthetic tissue joined. He could feel her fingers caressing him and he thought he could almost feel her touch on the insensate area. It was a strange sensation, soothing and arousing at the same time. Ethereally pale with skin that shimmered in the dim light, she appeared weightless, ephemeral. To his blurred vision, she seemed less an actual being than a product of his chemically addled mind. He blinked fiercely bur she remained there, smiling down at him and continuing to stroke his body.  
  
Slowly she moved her hand to his cheeks, wiping away the moisture, and then on to his left shoulder where the human and the machina blended. Again, he thought he could feel her touch. She gently and carefully slid her hand beneath the sheet, down his hip to the machina leg and again that strange sensation seized him. Without conscious volition, he reached for her with his good arm and pulled her down to him, his lips seeking hers. They were alone and he embraced her with a desperation that laid bare his rage and need.  
  
With a start, Nooj realized what he was doing and jerked back, releasing his grasp. "Forgive me. I am not myself," he said with a bitter, self- mocking laugh. "There is little enough of me left; I must try to keep what remains true to what I was."  
  
"There's more left of you than you think," she said and bent to rub her cheek against his chest. "Mmmm...I do love the smoothness of the men of your race."  
  
"It's strange... when you touched me, I seemed to feel where there are no nerves." He murmured absently. Then, recollecting what she had seen when she came in, he flushed scarlet. "And I deeply regret that you were exposed to my maudlin self pity."  
  
"Oh, I expect the nerves will regenerate to a degree and you can never underestimate those Al Bhed engineers. They'll find a way to create synthetic nerves that are better than real ones." She reached for the spectacles on the side table and set them on his nose, briskly hooking the temples over his ears. "As to the self-pity, you've a right to it. You must realize that you've been sleeping for more than six-weeks, you're physically weak from your ordeal and, what's more, you've just been hit with a massive dose of tranquilizer. What do you expect of yourself? ... Things will get better, love. I'd be furious too if I thought the Maesters were using me for their political games. Go ahead and fume but not too much. Your priority now is to get stronger and get out of here before they really take you over." She lifted a glass of water to his lips and watched as he drank thirstily.  
  
"So all this is real and I am alive – in parts; I wasn't sure.... What do they want from me?" Now that he could see her clearly, Nooj noted that she was as beautiful as he had imagined. As he had noted even with blurred vision, she was indeed radiantly fair.  
  
"Oh, you're alive all right – all of you and they want you to pull their chestnuts out of the fire they started. They've made a mess of this war and need you to whip up the populace and the troops into that well known fighting frenzy. Are you aware that Mounfar set up that encounter on Mount Gagazet?"  
  
"What? He planned that debacle? Why?" Nooj had thought it was Kinoc  
  
"Oh, he didn't intend for it to go quite that way. I have to give him that. He's not a common murderer; he just wanted to distract the people from some inconvenient truths that were starting to emerge. As a matter of my certain knowledge, you were cast as the star of the production – after the Summoner, of course." She watched him carefully, gauging his reaction to her words.  
  
"I remember dying there. What happened to Sin after I died? . Is my memory false?"  
  
"Not entirely; we were told that Sin vanished as soon as it unleashed that attack that caught you and you were put in a sort of mystic deep-freeze by some Mages until the Al Bhed could work their own magic and implant their heart and lung and ...so forth. Mounfar didn't want to lose you."  
  
"Is that why he's going along with the Al Bhed in this travesty? How can he even think I'd want to live like this? With this worse than useless arm and leg? As a half-human freak?" Had he the strength, Nooj would have struck out in fury in spite of the drugs. "Is this his apology for what his plotting did to me?"  
  
"I think in part. He doesn't have much understanding of how other people think. What Mounfar sees is that he has acted to keep you alive and you ought to be biddable for that reason alone. You've become the contemporary equivalent of a mythic hero, you know, and useful to them. They didn't pin those medals on you just to honor you and show appreciation for the number of fiends and Llyob you've killed; they always have several reasons for anything they do. They plan to use you for a lot of things. This time they intend to hide behind your reputation to protect their own and coax you into supporting their unnecessary wars. The next time it may be for installing a new government - first in Bevelle then all over Spira. Watch them carefully; they'll offer you anything they think you want – they've already given you a new life – but they'll expect you to sign on as their accomplice. In short, they want your soul," she spoke with the absolute assurance of one who knows and who is not often wrong. "I, in case you were wondering, want your body."  
  
He stared at her, astonished. "My body? What are you talking about? Is it a habit of yours to make sadistic jokes – do you have any more about cripples? Or maybe you think a good laugh is just what I need to cheer me up and you're playing the clown to divert me. There's not enough of my body left to feed a baby fiend. Perhaps you have a taste for machina."  
  
"I'm not a clown and I'm certainly not perverted. I've wanted you for a long time and now I have a chance. Finally you're flying low enough for me to reach," her look blended mockery with concern. "Nooj, I'm here when you need me. I'll help you fight the Maesters and get out of this place.... By the way, my name is LeBlanc."  
  
"LeBlanc, the woman who inherited the Syndicate. I saw you at that medal ceremony in the second row with members of the Council. Didn't you invite me to some of your soirees after that? You're not one to talk about high flyers - with you among the highest. You're the one who makes the boast that you always get what you want and you make me a target. Lady, you aim too low." He politely kissed her fingertips. "Now, go back to your buying and selling; you've had your entertainment for today."  
  
"I'm flattered that you remember me but, understand, I'm not entertaining myself. I'm entirely serious about everything I've said to you. It won't take you long to realize I never lie about anything- except in the way of business- and I haven't lied to you. You won't keep me away. I'll be here tomorrow, love, and we can begin hatching our own plots. Now rest and start regaining your strength; you're going to need it. And don't keep underestimating the Al Bhed. Those despised limbs will serve you better than you think right now. I assure you, this has been your worst day; things will get better." Bending, she brushed his lips lightly with hers and was gone leaving behind a trail of fragrance and a final thought. "I inherited the Syndicate in much the same way as you inherited the Crusaders." 


	4. Interlude with Sadism

I am humbled by the reviews which are far more positive than I expected or deserve. Thank you so much.  
  
The Llyob are an unknown humanoid faction that appeared unexpectedly on Spire and who have the power to herd and direct the fiends against the forces of good. They're part of the AU as are most of the Maesters (not called that in my book). I am excerpting, leaving out the passages that are totally non-canonical, and trying my utmost to force what I post here to conform, at least roughly, to the rules of the S-E story.  
  
Interlude with Sadism  
  
In the night the hospital became a silent, subtly hostile place with mysterious shadows and alien scents. The few who stirred in the darkened halls moved as quietly as spirits on their secret errands, checking a read- out here, soothing a disturbed patient there. In the particular stillness that came after mid-night, even the occasional passage along the corridors seemed to slow and finally cease altogether.  
  
The room in which Nooj lay reaffirming his resolution was as quiet as any other and dark save for the faint glow of a light low on the wall near the door which barely served to define the shapes of the furnishings and did nothing to reveal anything happening inside. He had slept much of the preceding day after the drama of his return to the ranks of the living. Now he was alert and sufficiently troubled by his situation to actively move against what had been done to him. He had made his own decision about his fate after hours of intermittent weighing of his choices. It had taken him a while to discover if he could trust his own mind again but now he was certain. There could be no compromise with the machina limbs that had been so arrogantly grafted onto his body after the encounter with Sin which had cost him his left arm and leg. Nothing could be done about the heart and lung that kept him alive; they were buried too deeply inside to be susceptible to his attack but the limbs. ...  
  
He carefully reached with his right hand, his only usable one, for the control that adjusted his bed and raised the head area as far as it would go. Earlier, nurses had done the same thing and had shifted him so that he could sit for a time on the edge of the bed to begin regaining his strength. Now, with no help, he struggled to swing the heavy metal leg over so that he could achieve the upright position he wanted. With a silent but savage curse, he manually bent the knee until the leg hung parallel with his good one then leaned against the elevated mattress to rest for a moment while he considered the best way to go about his task.  
  
He needed a tool and the only one accessible to him was part of the machina arm – the hand. It was a thing of rods and connecting cables, not flimsy but also not as strong as he would have liked. However, there was no choice so the hand would have to do but not while connected to the arm. Nooj seized the metal hand with his real one and began bending it back and forth. After what seemed like hours, the appendage snapped free with a slight screech of ceramic guides against metal cables. He waited to be sure no one had heard and, cursing his impaired eyesight, began to force the rods under the sheath clasping his thigh, holding the machina leg to what remained of his own left femur. The first time he tried to lever the sheath from his flesh, several of the hand's phalanges snapped off and fell to the floor with a gentle patter that sounded like a kettle drum to his heightened senses. Nooj paused to listen and assure himself that no one had heard this either and to raise the pain blockers in his brain in preparation for what was to come, then turned back to his undertaking. The rods which made up the palm of the hand were stronger and longer than those that had formed the fingers and he was able to insert them further beneath the attachment plate and push upward with more power. After resisting for long moments, the connecting rods from the sheath to the bone suddenly gave way, three of them on the upper surface tearing free and one of them nicking the femoral artery as it ripped through the muscle of the thigh. Simultaneously, an avalanche of agony buried his mental barriers and a gusher of blood struck him in the eyes. The unexpected double onslaught caught him off guard and his involuntary flinching from both disturbed the delicate balance of his posture on the bed's edge. With a ringing crash, he fell to the floor, the broken end of the machina arm slicing deeply into his side. He lay there only long enough to be sure that he could still move and then abandoned rational thought for the animal instinct to find a private place to die. He knew with the certainty of any injured mammal that he would swiftly bleed to death and welcomed it, his only concern that he not be disturbed until it was over, so he began to drag himself away from the bed and toward the window with its concealing curtains.  
  
The nurse who heard the crash from Nooj's room was not prepared for what she saw when she turned on the light. The bed, soaked in blood, was empty and a large pool of scarlet on the tile was smeared into a trail that led to the wall where she did not at once recognize the incredible figure of the man lying propped on his right elbow, head drooping, hair clotted and matted with the blood now oozing from his thigh. She thought at first he was dead until she saw the small, convulsive movement of his hand.  
  
The senior Healer who answered her panicked call automatically cast the stasis spell to stop the bleeding and prevent further damage. When he realized the identity of the person lying crumpled and near death, he immediately summoned additional assistance and began the covering story that would become the official word on the event.  
  
"He must have tried to get up by himself and fallen. Just what one might expect from a brave and determined man like this. Of course, it was a mistake not to have the rails up on his bed until he learned to use his new limbs but - well, mistakes will happen. It would just have been better if this mistake had not happened to this man. Better get him into surgery at once and, oh, call Gaing; this is his special project."  
  
Nooj was unaware of anything that happened after he had managed to make his way to the wall; he did not feel them lift him to the wheeled cot or transfer him to the table. He did not see the irritated face of Gaing or hear the angry voices of the Al Bhed artifactors when they saw what had been done to their carefully crafted prostheses. He was oblivious to the replacement blood dripping slowly into his arm and the spells that were cast to prepare him for the coming surgery.  
  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
  
"...alarmed. You're out of surgery and everything is all right. You have been held in a paralysis spell while the doctors worked but it should be wearing off soon. Don't be alarmed. You're out ..."  
  
Nooj had no idea how many times the strangely neutral voice had repeated that formula before its meaning finally penetrated his wakening mind. He tried to nod or make some other indication that he heard and understood only to find that he could move nothing, not even his eyelids. A reflexive flicker of terror ran through him, followed almost immediately by the recognition that this was what the voice was talking about; he was still within the parameters of the surgical spell.  
  
Apparently the owner of the voice realized that he/she had been understood for the message changed. "We were able to reattach the limbs – you will be glad to know – and all will be as it was before your unfortunate fall."  
  
Hearing that, he recoiled inwardly. So that was how they meant to play it? It had been no accident ... He was swept with a jarring flash of pain as a heavy hand struck against the stump of his left thigh and the voice continued.  
  
"Yes, indeed, you're all repaired. Does this make you want to scream? Too bad. Oh, you're crying."  
  
Nooj fought the sudden furious moisture that sprang into his eyes as the brutal hand moved to his left side and pressed harshly against the incisions there, generating another wave of agony, then back to the thigh for a second slap. He reached desperately into his own mind so that he could set the barriers higher against the onslaught he was experiencing. To his dismay, he was unable to enter the area, blocked by a spell that had been placed there while he was still unconscious. As the paroxysms continued to roil his undefended senses, he was barely aware of the words mocking him.  
  
"Now you are beginning to understand that your actions have consequences and perhaps learn not to indulge in such actions here." Again the unrelenting hand struck him and more helpless frustration threatened what control he still maintained. "Don't think it will get better when the paralysis wears off. You're strapped to this bed and won't be able to move anyway. Feel." Nooj felt straps pulled tightly against his shoulders, his waist, his knee and his ankle. "And that busy right hand of yours is tied to the bed with its own special little tie. So it won't be causing so much trouble for a while. ... I'll leave you now to reflect on your errors and resolve to improve your attitude. Rest well."  
  
Nooj could sense that he was alone. As he felt the moisture continuing to trickle down his face, he cursed his inability to wipe it away and feared that someone might see and think he wept from weakness or worse. He could tolerate pain, even pain he couldn't control, but he could not deal with pity. He was Nooj, after all, and pity was not appropriate for one of his kind. So much of who he was had been predicated upon what he was – a Warrior celebrated for his courage – and such a man would not be found tied helpless to a bed, weeping like a child.  
  
Frenzied, he searched his mental resources for some way to stop the pain and the despised tears. If he could not set barriers to protect his consciousness, he would have to try to move his consciousness from the source of the problem. With a massive effort, he concentrated on the quieting of his mind, sending his sensory awareness deep into the oceanic depths of his sub-conscious and lapsing into a state of hypnotic stillness.  
  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
  
When he permitted himself to wake again, it was to see the face of LeBlanc before his eyes.  
  
"LeBlanc, what are you doing here? Who sent you?"  
  
"I told you I would be back to see you today."  
  
He tested his powers, confirming that the paralysis was gone but finding he was still barred from much of his own mind by the second spell. When he tried to move, he realized that the voice had been no mere fever dream but had told the precise truth about the constraints holding him immobile.  
  
"Has it been only a day? Seems like so many more. Why am I confined like this?"  
  
"I don't know. I slipped in just now and haven't seen anyone to ask. Do you have any idea what must have happened since I left last night?"  
  
He gritted his teeth, "Yes, I know everything that happened. Can you at least free my hand?"  
  
"Of course, I can and will. And I'm going to take off these other straps too. It's ridiculous to treat you like a child or a half-wit." With a deft movement, she twitched back the sheet and unfastened the leather restraint holding his right wrist before turning her attention to the four wide bands crossing his body. When they were gone, Nooj breathed a deep sigh of relief and shifted on the bed, being careful not to move his left side lest he fan into flame the smoldering coals in the injured areas.  
  
"Thank you, I was getting badly cramped lying in one position so long. I owe you, lady."  
  
She smiled her little cat smile and stroked his brow. "I'll collect one day.... Now, will you tell me what's going on? I leave you somewhat depressed but rational and come back the next day and find you all freshly bandaged and strapped to the bed like a violent lunatic; something really dramatic must have happened."  
  
"No, I can't give you a coherent story. It's still too confusing even to me." He dissembled because he had no intention of letting her know that he had intentionally attempted to rid himself of the machina or – still less - that he had been deliberately tormented by an as yet unknown presence earlier in the day. Nooj was not a forgiving man and held both his enemies and himself strictly to account for their action and, perhaps even more strongly, for their inactions. He would take his revenge himself.  
  
"Well, whatever took place, it's all over and now we need to concentrate on getting you up walking and out of here." LeBlanc raised the head of the bed and leaned over to kiss his lips. He responded in spite of himself, twisting his fingers in the short loose curls that haloed her head.  
  
"Why has this patient been released?" They were startled by the indignant voice of the man who appeared in the door. "It's against orders to take those straps off until we're sure he's in his right mind and won't hurt himself." The man, chief nurse of the floor, flourished the syringe-gun he held in his hand.  
  
Pushing LeBlanc away, Nooj snarled, "Why? And what poison are you threatening to inject me with now?"  
  
"Because it's orders from the top, that's why - you know what you did and why those orders were put in place. ... This is your pain medication..."  
  
"I don't want it. Just let this damned spell wear off and I'll handle any pain myself. Leave me alone, damn you."  
  
"Can't do that," the man pressed the nozzle of the spray-syringe against the skin where Nooj's neck joined his right shoulder and pulled the trigger.  
  
Nooj tried to jerk away but his reflexes, slowed by the trauma of the past seven weeks, failed to respond in time. The medication rapidly infiltrated his blood stream, bringing its wake a deadening of sensation together with the sudden weakening of his muscles. He struggled ineffectively against the fog that rose in his mind and the gradual dimming of his vision.  
  
"LeBlanc, tell Mounfar," he gasped as he felt his strength and will draining away. He was unable to resist as his right wrist was pulled back against the bed-frame and tightly strapped there.  
  
She spun around brushing aside the hospital personnel who would have impeded her and, without another word, left for the office of the Obermaester. 


	5. Chapter Two Part One

Trust me – I'm not planning to segue into S/M here. I was curious as to what happened to Nooj to make him what he became – bitter, aloof, reticent, wary of forming relationships. It had to be something more than major battle injuries (he would have been prepared, more or less, for those.) I felt that some other trauma(s) had sparked his love affair with Death.  
  
Chapter Two  
  
The figure on the bed in the darkened room was still, only the barely perceptible rise and fall of the chest and the steady clicking of the machines reading vital signs offered any evidence of life. Two thick-necked orderlies sat watching from stools on either side of the room. Just outside the door a nurse whispered to her counterpart, "The one there – in that room – he's the one they found dead on Mount Gagazet and brought back to life. He's a problem. You won't believe it but he tried to rip off the machina arm and leg they gave him. The doctors are scared he's gone crazy so they drugged him until they can figure out what else to do."  
  
"You mean that's Nooj the Undying? "  
  
"Shh...we're not supposed to use his name; it's a big secret what happened."  
  
"So you're telling me he gets his life back and tries to kill himself?"  
  
"Sure looks that way. If it had been just a little bit longer, he would have bled to death right there on the floor. He managed to pull some of the connector rods loose and they had to call Gaing out in the middle of the night to cement them back in. You can guess how much Mr. Mighty Surgeon liked that. Now, they're not letting him move and keeping him as near unconscious as makes no difference. I'm going in to check on him now. Want to come with me? .... Wait! Is that Mounfar?"  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Coming down the hall." The first nurse pointed to a wedge of dignitaries led by the unmistakable figure of the Obermaester of the Maesters. Before either of them could think to escape, they were confronted with the hospital's director who demanded, "Do you have business here?"  
  
The second nurse fled but the first stood her ground. "Yes, sir, I am just on my way to do my routine check on this patient."  
  
"That can wait for a while. These visitors have priority. ... This way, Obermaester."  
  
Mounfar paused in the doorway, "I don't want to wake him if he's resting."  
  
"It's all right. He just drifts in and out of sleep; it won't make any difference." The director flipped on the light.  
  
Ordering his entourage to wait outside while he conducted his interview, the priest stepped into the room only to be immediately appalled by what he saw – Nooj was not asleep but staring vacantly at the opposite wall, his eyes dull, the muscles of his face slack. Heavy paddings of bandages immobilized his left shoulder and thigh and his right wrist was secured to the bed frame with a wide leather band.  
  
Mounfar looked at him for a long while but could find nothing of the confident Warrior he had known in the oblivious figure lying before him. Nooj seemed to be lost in a world private to him alone, one with no connection to the reality that surrounded him. "How much medication has he been given?"  
  
"I'm not sure. Let me check the chart." The director was flustered as he flipped the pages. "Oh dear, I'm afraid he's had more than I thought; you know he's very strong and if he had known how to use that machina hand, he would have succeeded in tearing his leg off and he wouldn't be here now. And I suppose you know that he was still trying to do... things when he came out of surgery."  
  
"What sort of things? Rip off the limbs again?"  
  
"That and refusing pain medication. He set barriers against our spells and wouldn't let us near him with injections, so we had to have two strong men hold him down while we knocked him out the first time."  
  
"Why didn't you keep him under until the need for pain management was past? That's what's usually done. Why the change?"  
  
"It was felt by the majority of us that under the circumstances he must be made to understand that his actions would have consequences."  
  
"So you tortured the poor devil. I see.... well, I need to talk to him so send for something to counteract these drugs. ...I'll take the responsibility." Mounfar angrily unbuckled the strap binding the wrist and began to massage away the indentation left there.  
  
"At once, sir." Almost before the call button could be pressed, an Al Bhed technician was in the room with a loaded syringe, emptying it into the shoulder of the man on the bed.  
  
Mounfar waited, closely observing the younger man. He was gratified to see awareness gradually returning to the empty face and eyes when Nooj stirred and, turning to him, asked, "Have you come to free me?"  
  
"Do you feel like a prisoner? Where do you want to go, lad?"  
  
"Of course, I'm a prisoner. What else? I want out of here...away from here and what you've done to me. I want to reverse time. I want to be rid of these travesties you've grafted onto me... Why didn't you let me stay on the Mountain?"  
  
"Do you not want to live? Is death so appealing to you?" Mounfar was gentle as he stroked the unruly hair back from the man's forehead. "We wanted you to stay on this world; we need you."  
  
Nooj tried to pull himself up to confront the Obermaester. "You lie! You want to use me for your own filthy purposes. I died like a warrior and you've turned me into a puppet. With this mechanical ... filth polluting me. Get away from me! ... Get out!" He struggled against the grip of the orderlies who held him back from attacking Mounfar.  
  
"You see, sir," the director timidly pulled at the priest's sleeve, "he's totally mad and we have to keep him drugged to control him."  
  
"Nonsense, he's not crazy. He's saner than any of you. Leave us alone. ...Again – my responsibility. Wait, before you leave, raise the head of this bed."  
  
When the others had reluctantly left the room, Mounfar pulled a chair up to the bedside and settled himself, handing Nooj his spectacles from inside the table drawer, "Nooj, don't be a fool; unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a state of semi-consciousness, you'll have to stop this ridiculous behavior. I'll grant you that we should not have interfered with the arrangements you had made for your demise but give us credit for not knowing what you wanted. We assumed, wrongly as it turns out, that any man would be grateful to be saved from death. It just happened that we chose the wrong man at the wrong time but you can't reasonably expect us to reverse course now, to humanely kill you – it's against all our principles just as suicide is against the tenets of your kind. We're all caught in the same snare so we'll have to make the best we can of it. I give you my word that the Maesters will not meddle in your affairs more than we can help and you promise me that you won't try something like this again. Can we deal?"  
  
Nooj did not meet his eyes, "How did you learn so much about our customs and what makes you think I'm still sufficiently constrained by them to be trusted? After all, I just made what most people would consider a determined stab at killing myself."  
  
"I don't think so, somehow. I think you were infuriated enough to try to get rid of what you consider infringements on your personal dignity and what happened was not a part of your intent. I know your honor and have witnessed your courage. I have no hesitation in accepting your word. Will you give it?"  
  
"On the condition that you put no obstacles in the way of my getting out of this place as quickly as possible. ... And that you tell me what other little surprises you have for me."  
  
"Surprises? I don't understand." Mounfar was genuinely puzzled.  
  
"You understand. You sent LeBlanc to spin her webs – what other plots are waiting for me?"  
  
Mounfar chuckled, "Nobody sends LeBlanc anywhere – she's a force unto herself. If she came here, she came because she wanted to. I don't have any power over her.... But it would appear that you do. After all, you can't deny you send her to tell me what they were doing to you. That's why I'm here.'  
  
"I sent her because I had no other options. And I didn't think you would countenance this sort of treatment, not even of an enemy. Did you know?"  
  
"Of course not; I wasn't even told what you had done until I questioned the doctors after I got here. You have more faith in me than you're ready to admit. ... Now, back to our contract - on my word as Obermaester, I know of no other plots to inconvenience or entrap you. Now, will you agree?"  
  
"You're too eager. I don't trust you."  
  
Mounfar sighed with exasperation. "I can't blame you for your suspicions but you have to trust me or go back into that drugged near-coma you were in when I came. Believe it or not, I'm your salvation, not your enemy, as you seem to think. So, make your choice and make it quickly – I have other duties today than to wheedle and cosset you."  
  
This time fury gave Nooj the strength to spring upright and reach with his right hand for Mounfar's throat. The older man caught his wrist with unexpected ease and snarled, "I said stop this! Don't keep playing madman with me."  
  
Surprised by the response, Nooj attempted to wrest his arm free of the bruising grip. After a brief but futile struggle, he fell back to the bed, still flushed but no longer combative. An indefinable something flickered and died in his eyes. "All right, let me out as soon as possible and I'll give my word that I won't cause any more trouble while I'm here," he agreed with grudging respect.  
  
"That's not exactly what I asked for but it will do for now," Mounfar said. "We can re-negotiate our treaty later if I think it necessary."  
  
He leaned back, releasing the wrist he had held until the younger man yielded. He had accomplished his primary purpose, forcing Nooj to acquiesce to treatment until he could be persuaded to become part of the Maesters' coterie. Now that was done, he had to insure his prize would stay where he could be controlled.  
  
"Where do you want to go when you leave here?'  
  
"I suppose I'll go back to my homeland. That's where most of my kind go when they are old or broken. We are expected to make ourselves useful to our people while we wait to die." Nooj's voice was heavy with sarcasm, not unmixed with self-pity, "Maybe I can take up weaving or some other craft suitable for a cripple."  
  
"Would you like to stay here in Bevelle where you can learn how to fully use these machina limbs? Now that you've given your word, we have no reason not to help you use your arm and hand – and later your leg." Mounfar delicately dangled his bait.  
  
"Are you suggesting that I resign myself to these.... obscenities?"  
  
"Yes, if you ever want to walk again. You should have figured this out yourself, but after what's happened in the past few days, I doubt you're reasoning well. If you're ever going to move independently again you must have the use of the machina hand and arm."  
  
"Why them and not the leg?"  
  
"So that you can grip crutches or a cane. Otherwise you'll fall as soon as you try to take a step. You'll find some sort of prop necessary until you've learned to balance on a foot you can't feel. ... I doubt you've been told yet that these machina prostheses are controllable by your mind. They were designed to mimic your real limbs as much as possible, particularly in the using of them, so you've got to learn to operate them much as you learned to grasp and walk when you were a child. The Al Bhed will explain all this to you in detail if you let them and don't keep fighting them off and making them so irritated with you. You need both physical therapy and mental training before you can begin to taste freedom again. Without both, you'll be condemned to an existence of utter physical passivity – staying wherever you are put by whoever has the tending of you. I don't think you'd like living that way."  
  
"I won't live that way; you know that." He had paled at the thought.  
  
"Nor would I, to be frank with you. But if you don't co-operate you may have no alternative. I understand your anger and frustration; you're still a young man and have much to do. If you stay where help is available, you'll be able to get on with things as soon as you're ready. In addition, you'll find much to amuse you in the city – unlike on your quiet home. For example, to stave off boredom, you might choose to involve yourself with some of the political games available to a man like you. Any number of factions would grab an authentic war hero." Mounfar smiled to imply he was being frivolous.  
  
Nooj laughed without amusement, "You think I want to get into your dirty business? ...No, tell me what the Al Bhed believe these things can do."  
  
"I'll send Gaing to explain it all to you. He claims great success with these new models. With your determination added to Al Bhed ingenuity, who can tell? ... There's another thing you have to face, Nooj, I'm not saying that you can ever go back on active duty in the army, quite the contrary. You'll have to understand that you can no longer be a Warrior; that part's done with. I know you aren't ready to admit this is true so I am relying on your intelligence to weigh your situation and come to this conclusion yourself. We'll give you every assistance in our power to help you establish yourself in another career and you'll find many opportunities available once you agree to be sensible and settle for the possible. When you have regained your strength and mobility you can make the necessary decisions." The Obermaester was relying on his knowledge of the younger man's stubborn pride to hold him in the city where a refuge was already being prepared.  
  
Bound by his promise, Nooj checked his impulsively violent reaction, "You forget I'm a madman and I do not admit that I'm no longer a Warrior; that's not part of our agreement. But, for my own purposes - that is - in order to continue being what I am, I'll stay here if I can find suitable and affordable accommodations."  
  
Mounfar smiled serenely, "Don't worry about that; I'm sure something will turn up." He stood to leave. "Now, don't be in too much of a hurry to get out of here; remember you still have to heal so take advantage of these facilities. ...Now, lad, I have no intention of bothering you again but if you want to see me – send word and I'll come back."  
  
"Wait! Can you be sure they won't start their damned drugs and spells again?"  
  
"I'll leave orders that so long as you cooperate they are to leave your mind untouched. They know I'll be watching and since they don't want to irritate me, you'll be all right now. And as a good faith gesture to you, I'll instruct them to get you up on crutches as soon as possible – if you are a quick student, perhaps even tomorrow." Mounfar waved a hand and was gone.  
  
Crutches! First spectacles, now crutches! Nooj gritted his teeth with disgust and would have flung his water carafe across the room had he not remembered the promise that had been exacted from him. With an angry snort he threw himself back against the pillows and gave himself over to a combination of resentment at his confinement and relief that at least he was finally able to think coherently again. 


	6. Chapter two Part Two

Just a voice in the wilderness, singing my songs to myself alone. I'm up- dating often because this thing is not being written as it is posted. It was basically complete several weeks ago and I am merely re-casting it back into canonical form as fully as I can so that it will fit on this site.  
  
PS. – revision because I was irritated with some of what I had written.  
  
Chapter Two – Part Two  
  
Mounfar had prophesied well or had excellent contacts among the hospital staff or perhaps both. After gaining some controlled movement in his left arm, Anjh had become more or less ambulatory, trading in the crutches for a single cane. Now he sat in the chair before the mirror, his spectacles sliding down his nose as usual. He loathed them as much as he hated the cane and the unyielding machina limbs. When more than a week ago, in a fit of despondent madness, he had tried to rip them from their moorings in his flesh he had found the attachments too strong for his weakened condition and had been punished with a prolonged course of tranquilizing drugs while the damage he had managed to do was healed. He shriveled at the memory of his vulnerability then and now and at the ease with which the aged Obermaester had bested him. But it was the daily small struggles that robbed him of his dignity and made him restively angry at his limitations. The Hypello servants had helped him dress which was always a tedious and lengthy process. But they were useless at completing his preparations for the day. Securing his hair in the elaborate style customary to his people was impossibly difficult with only one real arm and one marginally responsive mechanical limb at his service. He briefly considered having his head shaved then rejected that as an abject surrender to handicaps he declined to acknowledge. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the tradition among his kind of permanent depilation at puberty. Shaving or trimming a beard would be another infuriating task in his condition and the very contemplation of the combination of machina implants and body hair made him cringe.  
  
He hurled the brush across the room; his temper was short these days since training was not physical but almost exclusively mental – exercises of the mind that left him with raging headaches instead of pleasantly tired muscles. For years, he had been accustomed to spending his days practicing with the long sword, competing with his fellow Warriors, pushing his body in ways that left him exhausted but satisfied. He missed all that more than he had ever expected now that he was subject to the small precise schoolings of his mental powers as he learned to manipulate the mechanical arm. And he had not yet begun on the leg. So far the best he could do was to swing it along while leaning heavily on the cane. It was a slow and cumbersome way of progressing which made him hunger for his former agility. What's more, he hurt – to his confused fury; he felt real pain in the limbs he no longer possessed. Had he not experienced that from the time he woke in the white room, he would have considered it just another consequence of his ill-advised attempt to rid himself of the replacements. Now he didn't know what to make of it. There were too many obstacles, too many questions and too few successes.  
  
And too many betrayals. His trust in other humans, never strong, had been badly frayed by the torrent of events since his 'miraculous resurrection'. Without wanting to know, he had become aware of the multitude of forces impinging upon his liberty, all wanting something from him. As a boy, Nooj had been private, disliking the company of most of his peers, withdrawn and silent. Now, he had grown more so, retreating into himself and rejecting what he perceived as the pity of those around him. Finding no one who appeared totally trustworthy, he chose to trust no one. He slumped down and morosely brooded, glaring moodily at nothing.  
  
A touch on his cheek made him lift his eyes. He saw LeBlanc standing behind him, reflected in the mirror. She affectionately lifted the heavy mass of dark hair to her face, inhaled deeply, and let it fall back to his shoulders.  
  
"You smell good. ...Indulging in a bit of bathos, love? Can't say I blame you but things will get better. Let me do that." She swooped down gracefully and retrieved the brush.  
  
He frowned watching her laugh with tender derision, her hands swiftly pulling his waist-length hair up and twisting it into the formal mode he affected. When she had patted the braids into their proper pattern, he caught her wrist awkwardly in his left hand, the one with the black glove covering the mechanism. He had observed that she liked to be touched with that hand; it made her breathing come faster and her face flush. Now I know what she meant about more to my body he thought cynically as he watched her expression in the mirror before pulling her around to his knees and embracing her with more contempt than affection.  
  
She hungrily returned his kiss, wrapping her arms about his neck and pulling him close as his tongue invaded her mouth. He stroked her back from nape to hip with the black glove and felt her body tremble against him like a captive bird. At last, he released his hold and pushed her away, not looking in her direction.  
  
"Why won't you let me love you?" she asked.  
  
"I decline to let you waste your time, lady. I'm not and never was a proper object for the sort of love you're looking for. In my culture, we don't give and accept love the way the rest of you do ... now – for god's sake – look at me LeBlanc! Even if I weren't what I am, how can you expect someone locked in this carapace to even think about physical love? I refuse to take advantage of your momentary lapse and repay your kindness by encouraging your ill-advised fancy for novelty." He began to struggle to his feet using the chair as support to lever the machina leg under him.  
  
"Your people have been known to love – even you. ...I know you've had other lovers; I know their names and I hate them. I've had lovers too but when I'm with you or even when I think about you – they don't matter, they just aren't there. We aren't so different, you and I, so why won't you at least pretend to love me? I know I can make you forget those women you've known ...I can make you happy." She caught at his sleeve as he brushed past.  
  
"I've already forgotten any women in my past; that part is over," Nooj took a firm grip on his cane and began his painful progress to the door. "Go find another pet, lady - I bite. ...You must pardon me – my therapist awaits. He's promised that I shall learn to bend my new and improved elbow today. That's what I consider happiness these days." His mockery was like a slap to her face – as he had intended.  
  
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Beclem the best trainer in the Crusaders, was waiting in the therapy room checking the passive exercise equipment. The Al Bhed therapist, Droga, an expert in the field of prostheses, joined him at the task.  
  
"Be careful today, the captain's temper is not the best right now. He doesn't even have as much patience as he used to have in the Squad. Don't cross him." Beclem warned.  
  
"Right you are, guv. Can't blame the poor git; 'es 'ad a bad time. Can't be easy to die and think it's all done with and then wake up and find you 'ave to start it up again." Droga was accustomed to the evil tempers of damaged Warriors. "What're we goin' to do to 'im today?"  
  
"I think we'd better keep on with these exercise machines; he won't be able to do anything else if his muscles atrophy. Those new ones they brought in last night look pretty good."  
  
"Right. Now let me get this straight – we're supposed to be teaching 'im to use the machina– anything else?"  
  
"Yes, he's going to insist on getting ready to go back to the battlefield again. I know – that's pretty far-fetched but it's the way he is. I don't think anybody has had the guts yet to tell him he can't do that any more." Beclem straightened when he heard the uneven steps approaching. "Shut up – here he is."  
  
Nooj paused in the door, pushed the spectacles back up on his nose and demanded, "When do I get to the target range? I need to know if my aim is still good enough."  
  
"No target range here, guv. Have to wait 'til you get to that big place on the outskirts. Plentya room there. Now, let's get to work on the elbow."  
  
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Several hours later, Nooj sat trembling with fatigue but more optimistic than he had been since he woke in the white room. He could flex the elbow of his machina arm without effort. The arm was moving easily; the fingers worked and he could grasp a gun and aim it steadily. Using a sword was still beyond him but he was certain that would come as well. Recovery was beginning to seem a real possibility. Of course, the delicate control of the complex hand still required careful attention. He could hold an egg without breaking it and crush a skull without difficulty but to choose the exact amount of pressure was problematic since he had no feedback to regulate his touch. He was learning how to watch and judge his movements with great precision - a tiring but exhilarating exercise. To his chagrined amusement, he found himself thinking that he must take pains not to close his left hand too tightly when he caressed LeBlanc.  
  
Earlier Gaing had paid a visit and told him that, with his lungs and the implanted heart both aerating the blood, he might find that he had more energy and better stamina than ever. Nooj, ignoring the conditional, held to that idea like a believer to a holy icon. Not just to be as good as but to be better. He would take to the battlefield and fight once again - standing astride defeated foes.... Standing! Right! He grimaced as he struggled to his feet, the machina leg heavy and unresponsive. That was his next obstacle; he could not leave the hospital for more advanced rehabilitation until he had some measure of control over the leg. At the moment, it was as likely to collapse under him as provide support. Only the cane enabled him to walk at all and canes were not battlefield equipment.  
  
He stripped off his clothing and looked into the mirror outside the shower door. What he saw was both familiar and strange. In his homeland, the youth were accustomed to practice their martial skills before mirrors to refine their techniques. So he was not unfamiliar with what his naked body had looked like before his injuries. His critical eye observed that his shoulders were still wide – even though the left one was partly machina – and his hips still narrow. His muscle definition was somewhat blurred but that was to be expected after so long a period of idleness and could be easily remedied with a few weeks of exercise. If he looked only at the right side, he recognized himself but when he forced his unwilling gaze to the left, he was appalled.  
  
He had forgotten that the Al Bhed were accustomed to splashing on areas of paint to accent their machina creations and it seemed that they had chosen red as the primary color for his arm and leg either to match his Crusader uniform or because they had more red than any other color. For whatever reason the overall effect was garish beyond belief – the combination of semi-matte metal and scarlet enamel contrasting with his hospital pale skin, made him look like a toy carelessly assembled from disparate parts. The attempt at modeling the new chest to match the old was more successful; the clavicle under the synthetic skin could hardly be distinguished from the one on the right and the technicians had even created a nipple to keep his chest from being visually asymmetrical. It was the arm and leg that failed aesthetically. Both the colors and the shape were far from realistic since practicality had won out over aesthetics. He wondered vaguely why the same sort of simulated covering had not been used there as on his chest and shoulder. He would probably be told the reason eventually or maybe they were waiting to see if further adjustments had to be made. This was the alien part of him – the part he could not feel and was only just beginning to learn to use - the part that still plagued him with its phantom agonies. He ran his right hand along his rib cage and felt the change from hard flesh to harder metal. Suddenly repulsed by the knowledge of what lay under his fingers, he could no longer bear to touch or see the non-human parts of himself and, shuddering, turned away toward the shower  
  
The Hypello had helped him dress again. Whatever would he do without them? He recoiled at being seen naked by any other than himself. Even trainers and healers, to whose gaze he had been accustomed since childhood, offended him now. This unfamiliar sense of shame was jarring to his intelligence, which insisted that the body was only a tool to be kept clean and tended - nothing unique. He had been taught that long ago on the island where he had run, like his crèche mates, naked and free in the sun. He was not sure whether it was a new-found modesty or the awareness of his strangeness that made him so reluctant to uncover his body but, for whatever reason, he could not longer tolerate the eyes of other people on his nakedness. 


	7. Chapter TwoConclusion

Chapter Two –Conclusion  
  
Nooj thought perhaps his success in controlling the synthetic arm was due to the early training he had received on his home island. Concentration was the key to it all, that and identifying the mental connectors. When he had suddenly found the link between the receptors of the Al Bhed creation and his own highly disciplined mind, it had become simple to activate the artificial arm as easily as he used his real one. Now, if he could make the connections to the leg as quickly...  
  
"Uh!" he grunted as the machina leg buckled under him, unceremoniously dumping him on the hard floor, his cane skittering away leaving him sprawled like an overturned beetle. As he struggled to right himself, Hypello came running, gathering around with their ineffectual little bluish hands tugging at whatever part of him they could reach.  
  
"Get away; you can't help." He stretched for the cane, which was tantalizingly just beyond his scrabbling fingers. He could get his good leg bent beneath him and pull himself to his right knee but without the cane he could not push himself upright.  
  
"This is absurd," he thought as he glared at the unbending and unresponsive limb. "I'm planning for battle and I can't get off the damned floor. What kind of Warrior can't even stand up without help?"  
  
Then Droga was beside him, alerted by the noise of the fall, his powerful arms pulling Nooj to his feet with one huge tug.  
  
"You all right, sir? Anything broken?" He inquired hastily.  
  
"No more than usual, thank you, Droga. I was in a nasty fix just now." Nooj ground his teeth in frustration and turned to go.  
  
"Mebbe I'll just walk 'long with you to your room. Keep you company, like." Droga casually held out the cane, which he had retrieved from the other side of the corridor.  
  
"That will not be necessary. I do not need company. I can manage to get to my room." He bit the words into short strands with exaggerated care, furious with himself for his inattention. Dreaming about the days when his body was whole and he had a future – he mentally snorted at his carelessness. Well, he had paid for his inattention and the relaxing of his control. Burning with embarrassment, he imagined the sight he must have presented. The shame of being seen like that, helpless as a new-born, scrabbling around on the floor, unable to stand up much less defend himself. What sort of Warrior was that? Was he to be reduced to this? More aware than ever of the clumsiness of his gait, he limped toward his room and his bed and a night of disquieting thoughts, Droga discreetly trailing behind  
  
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Nooj had joined his father, Biyonne shortly after his seventeenth year when he had finished his training to become a Warrior. He had been welcomed by his parent with courtesy but no enthusiasm or ceremony. After all, they were strangers with no contact since Nooj's natal day when his father had carried him from between his mother's legs to the arms of the waiting Elders. The boy had expected to be in awe of the man but what he had not expected was how immature, how callow and ineffectual he would feel. At home, he had been the best in every field and it was difficult for him to adjust to his position as the least able of his father's men, the one who needed things explained. Just watching his father on the battlefield was a humbling experience and Nooj was unused to humility. As a result, he withdrew ever more deeply into his accustomed silence, quietly observing and learning. He knew he was superior to his sire only in his agility and grace, so used those abilities to their fullest, running Biyonne's errands and, in general, acting as his batman in an attempt to earn his father's approval and praise.  
  
Now, many campaigns later, he had gained a measure of acceptance from the Crusaders, who were both amused and impressed by his valiant attempts to equal their leader. And, more satisfying to the youth, he had sufficiently improved to be permitted the right of fighting back to back with the older man, almost as his equal. To Nooj, that was a privilege to be greatly valued since it implied an unspoken trust in his competence and courage. They had never had the long conversations he had hoped for, the ones that would have given him guidance on life, death and leadership, but he had earned the right to defend the back of Biyonne the Undying, to be a part of the most disciplined and daring corps in the Spiran army. On this day, that seemed quite enough.  
  
It was hot and smoke obscured the battlefield while projectiles screamed unseen in the fog and blowing sand. The fiends were endless, boiling up from the ground as though brought forth by the very earth itself. Their tentacles reached for the warriors and the Mages who were trying to protect Spiran forces against the deadly basilisk gaze of the single eye at the summit of the writhing bodies. Already the sand was littered with the stony remnants of men and women who had fallen to that gaze, been petrified and shattered. Other, less dangerous Fiends fired bolts of pure energy that destroyed where they touched. Cries of the wounded added to the cacophony of battle, as did the howls and war-shouts of attacker and defender. The stench was nearly palpable from the bodies and the munitions of both sides. Blood had soaked deeply into the ground and dismembered corpses lay as they had fallen, there being neither opportunity nor time to remove the injured and dead.  
  
Behind the fiends ranged the Llyob. Humanoid but unknown, they were the instigators, the controllers of these brutes that menaced the armies of Spira. The strange, cloaked invaders formed a sort of flexible integument shaping the feral hordes into a single weapon aimed at the middle of the opposing line where a compact core of Crusaders held firm.  
  
In the midst of this chaos, Nooj stood, legs spread for stability, his back pressed against that of his father. They had fought together as Spiran warriors for what seemed an eternity in this time of bitter conflict. Time while he had watched his father leap heedless of danger into the very central maelstrom of battle after battle, seen blows that would have destroyed other men turned away by that great sword and steely wrist. Three years while his keen eyes had looked and memorized and learned – always learned. He had observed and adapted for himself the techniques he saw his father use and had begun to understand why the squadron called the big fearless man "The Undying." But, this battle seemed different somehow; the fiends were more numerous and their defense seemed stronger – it took many more blows to kill them; spells were less effective and the human responses were slower. Gradually, it occurred to him that somewhere, someone was casting magic upon the human army, sapping it of its abilities, negating its defenses.  
  
"They must be suppressing our minds, too," he murmured to himself. "I should have realized this earlier."  
  
He looked across the plain, straining to pierce the dust of the battle and then, suddenly, as the wind lifted the fog for a moment, his hawk-keen eyes saw It - the small group of Llyob Mages on a low hill far to his left. With an inchoate cry of rage, he sprang toward them, his sword raised as he ran, dodging tentacles and weapons automatically with the athletic grace of a youth at his physical peak. Behind him, he heard Biyonne bellow, "Damn you, coward, run from the enemy, will you! Come back - no Warrior..."  
  
He could not even glance back or he would lose sight of his quarry and it would all be for nothing. With a desperate bound, he reached the hillock and with one swing of his sword, cut down the Mages like so many stalks of grass. From his rear, he heard the sudden triumphant cheer of the army as they were freed from the weight of the Black spells and waded into to the fiends surrounding them.  
  
He stood for a moment, shouting exultantly, joyfully swinging his blade against the few remaining enemy within his reach, his Warrior's heart singing within him. Now he must hurry and explain his behavior to that stern, unyielding man - his father. Surely, he would understand that the battle had turned due to his son's actions and be proud. The young man loped proudly back to where he and his father had stood defending each the other's back. No one stood there anymore; instead he saw a shape lying crumpled among the rocks and sand. Biyonne was fallen.  
  
"Father!" Nooj flung himself down on his knees beside the sprawled shattered body of the man he had not known well enough to love. What he saw before him was too terrible for his incredulous mind to process – the massive destruction of the center of the body, the crimson smears where the chest and pelvis should have been. Connected to what remained of the torso by strings of sinew, the limbs were little more than bands of torn muscle and fragmented bone. Only the head was still recognizable as human. The boy gagged, staring into the fixed dark stare of his father's eyes. Inside his head he was still deafened by the persistent scream of 'Damn you –coward'. He was kneeling there, maddened by grief, howling demented denials, when two Crusaders came to him and, lifting him to his feet, compassionately dragged him away from the scene.  
  
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Nooj started awake from the nightmare, sweat beading on his skin. His eyes were stinging as though from the wind-blown sand of that fatal ground and, for a moment, he was confused as to his location and the time. It was too much like the event earlier in the evening. He was again trapped in a hopeless situation from which there was no escape. Why had he not gone back home and sought counsel from the Elder? An unwillingness to accept either solace or help had been a trait of his from the beginning – that and arrant pride. The Crusaders had offered him his father's position and, in time, his cognomen. In his efforts to be worthy of both, he had left much that should have been done unfinished. ...And years ago, he had admitted to himself that much of what he did was to surpass his sire in the eyes of those who had known them both. .  
  
In the paranoiac depths of the night, he wondered if his fate was his punishment for abandoning his early beliefs or – the thought shocked him like the touch of lightning – abandoning his father on that field. It seemed somehow an appropriate penance that the strong, swift, raptor- sighted boy should be reduced to this hobbling, useless man who needed help to see across the room, this experiment, this tool of the Maesters. Grudgingly he confessed inwardly that he had spent the years since the death of Biyonne attempting to expiate his sin in his father's eyes. The motivating force of his existence had become the need to blot out any stain that remained from his father's dying accusation. It made no difference that the sire was no longer there to witness the son's atonement – Nooj was locked into that traumatic moment. It was a slow poison corroding his spirit and driving him to headstrong acts that augured ill for his eventual survival. But he dared not die with the brand of coward still on his soul and burned into his mind.  
  
It was impossible to return to sleep so he struggled from the bed and, wrapping a robe around his bare body, grasped his cane and haltingly made his way to the belvedere at the end of the corridor. A numbingly cold despair gripped him and he felt like a climber on a blizzard -struck mountain, trudging one exhausted step at a time. He stood at the window looking out at the stars and the few lights still glimmering in the city but seeing none of it. The horror of memory was overwhelming as he relived once more the last hours of his father's life.  
  
"What else could I have done that day? We should have talked more but with both of us so reticent... I wish I had known him better... I should have asked questions instead of just watching him... I never knew his age or what he thought of anything. He never praised me and I will never know if he really thought I was a coward...If we had talked more, he might have trusted me then, known what I was doing... Damn, I don't even know who my mother was; I never asked. I never asked anything... "  
  
The dimly lit room was empty save for the distraught man. Suspended as it was above the buildings of the city with a sheer drop to the courtyard below, the lounge gave the illusion of being out of time and space – a soaring capsule on the far side of reality. So much of what Nooj had experienced in the days since the events in the white room was like that – not entirely real, both more and less than a dream. This was the night and the place for facing truth without the protective screens of half lies he had used for so long to shield the unhealed emotional wounds of that day that had seen his actual transition to adulthood. He had built a temple of adulation around Biyonne to house the god memory had created from the man. Now, this night, he must look into his own sanctuary and come to terms with what had changed him that day; death had rendered further self-serving deceits untenable. With a sense of inevitability, he acknowledged to himself what he had for so long hidden in shame. ...He had hated and resented his father. There, he had admitted it but the expected relief did not come. With increasing anguish, he twisted his half-machina body in search of surcease. From the day he had met the cold, hard man who had fathered him, he had envied and hated him. There had been no bonding, only a cruel and demeaning relationship that was more that of master-servant than father- son. He had known from the first that there would be no appeasing of the soul of Biyonne, that the only choice would be to join him, willing or not. It was for that reason Nooj had lost his faith in the comforting legend of the Far Plane. Only with maturity had come the understanding that his father had felt much the same animus toward him – that neither the envy nor the resentment had been his alone.  
  
"We were too much alike. It was inevitable that we would be competitors and enemies when we met. I was driven to supplant him and he could not bear to have his own son challenge him. He had invested his entire existence in being what he was: the flawless leader, the Undying captain. He never wanted to leave off being a Warrior because he never wanted to take on civilian responsibilities; the field of battle was too comfortable for him. Am I the same there as well? Am I condemned to stay what I am until I find a way to die as he did?"  
  
He saw his life and behavior since that pivotal day, recognizing that Spiran strictures and his own rigid upbringing had blinded him to what had actually happened within him then. His essence had been deformed in a radical way, one unacceptable not only to his own people but also the vast majority of the inhabitants of his world. Stripping away all pretenses, he forced his hesitating mind to acknowledge the truth he had heard hinted, whispered when others talked about him. He was a Deathseeker – one of that doomed fraternity of Warriors who sought their ultimate victory in their ending – one of those not spoken of in public because of the disdain they held for the principal ethos of the planet - life and its protection. He whispered the word – Deathseeker – and took it for his own with a feeling of sardonic relief. It defined him.  
  
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes. So that was it, the key he had been missing. That was the admission he had been required to make. Now that it was done and finished with this had to stop; he was not all that weak. No more brooding like some fluttering priest. No more self-pity. His life had become a series of leave takings, of disentanglements. There seemed to be an endless number of decisions to make and realities to face. This would not be the last, of that he was sure, but it was one more illusion dispelled. He now knew what he was and what he would do. That was enough. He would master the damned leg, get out of this place, and go hunt his doom on the nearest battleground but it must be a death that would clean the stain from his honor; he could not die for a caprice. And, oh, yes, he had promised long ago to make sure his genetic material did not die so he must father a son quickly – if he was still capable. A troubling question crossed his mind. Would a son of his – if such were possible - be as warped as he had become? Probably not, since he could have no direct contact with the boy. He sighed as he contemplated the tasks before him. It would have been so much easier had he been left as he was on Mount Gagazet– that death had been appropriate and splendidly uncomplicated as opposed to this pointless struggle to accommodate the needs of the people who now infringed on his existence. An ironic smile twisted his lips as he visualized the reactions of those other people if he just stepped out the window so temptingly near. Tonight. Now. Of course, he was a Warrior and could not do that – yet. 


	8. Chapter ThreePart one

Since there is, obviously, little interest in this work among the habitués of this site and since I am finding it increasingly difficult to force my imagination into the strait waistcoat of canonical correctness (and, frankly, it's just not worth the effort with no feedback) – I shall stop posting shortly when I have used the parts I have already prepared.  
  
The only reason I am continuing at all is that I have a stubborn distaste for bailing out 'in medias res' and prefer to stop at a logical point.  
  
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Chapter Three-Part One  
  
Nooj looked around the claustrophobic confines of his quarters with a growing feeling of disgust. His Al Bhed Healers had finally admitted that they had done as much as they could to prepare him for his life with the implants that had enabled his current existence; therefore he was to be released to his own custody and the continued rehabilitation efforts of a combined Al Bhed – Crusader contingent of therapists and trainers. It had been decided that it would be better if he remained in Bevelle, living in one of the larger mansions within the city itself so that any required medical amenities would be readily at hand. The choices made on his behalf were not completely satisfying but escaping the hospital was his immediate goal. Once that was done, he felt he could consider himself freed also from his oath to the Obermaester.  
  
"So, Beclem, we get out of this place next week. I'd rather go to another city but – one step at a time." Nooj looked with disgust at the room he had inhabited since his consciousness had returned. "I'm tired of being in this cage where anybody who wants to can wander in and take a look – It makes me feel like a freak in a side-show. One of the things I'll insist on when we get into a house is a room that can be locked and opened only by me."  
  
"Good idea, I'll add that to the requirements. Isn't LeBlanc planning most of the renovations? Want me to tell her about your private room?"  
  
"Don't bother; she'll be here before long; she hasn't missed a day."  
  
Beclem laughed, "I think the lady is besotted with you. If you want to go to another city, I'm sure she'll take you to Guadosalam or that island I hear she owns. Why not ask her?"  
  
"I think the lady is trying to prove a point or win a bet." Nooj was prickly on that subject. "No, Bevelle will do as well as any other until we can get out of the Council's hands altogether. Now go on and make sure nothing is likely to delay the move we've finally talked them into."  
  
When Beclem had left, Nooj stood motionless for a short time, collecting his strength then moved as quickly as he could to the door and turned the thumb latch before anyone else could seek entrance. The latch wasn't very secure but it was the best available in this place and he required privacy for what he had to do. With a barely suppressed moan, he almost fell down onto the straight chair, which was the only one available, and bent over clutching his left arm. His fingers touched metal and ceramic but in his mind he felt flesh and bone - and pain. Pain ran from his fingertips to his clavicle and from his left foot to his mid-thigh. It was as though the vanished limbs haunted him with the ghosts of their destruction. He rocked back and forth with muffled gasps as he worked to strengthen the barriers in his mind that shunted the sensations away from his perception. Finally, he could feel himself regaining control and the sharpness of the pangs gradually abating. It had been a near thing; he had almost collapsed in front of Beclem and that would have been disastrous not only to his pride but also to his plans. Dizzy and weak from the effort to manage this additional problem, he leaned back as the expected knock came at the door.  
  
"Just a minute," he called out, hurriedly recomposing his face before turning the lock. As he had anticipated, LeBlanc stood there, radiant with freshness in the stale atmosphere of the room.  
  
"Good morning, love. Smile, I'm carrying your discharge papers. You'll be out of here in three days." She danced toward him, waving an envelope covered with official stamps.  
  
"How did you manage that? I thought they were going to keep me caged for another full week. Miracle lady!"  
  
She perched on the foot of the bed, glowing with triumph. "I called in some markers and found a firm that will finish the house ahead of schedule. With that the Council had no more acceptable reasons for stopping you."  
  
"I'll use you as my advocate any time I need things done." He began sorting through the papers.  
  
"I did have to agree to one more condition," LeBlanc added with some hesitation. "I hope you won't mind."  
  
Instantly wary, Nooj paused and flung up his head, "What?"  
  
"They were concerned about your setting up a household of Crusaders and slipping away from their influence. Mounfar threatened to put in a team of his own spies to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn't ...do something they didn't want you to do. So – to keep him from doing that - I told him I would live there too..." she looked at him pleadingly. She had no intention of telling him about her true arrangement with the Obermaester.  
  
"I don't know who's the more devious – you or Mounfar.... You're planning to live in the same house?"  
  
"It's a very big house." She was disingenuous.  
  
"When you say you get what you want you're not joking. Just what are you up to, LeBlanc? You're planning to live in the same house with me – are you planning on sharing the same bed?" He glared at her over his spectacles.  
  
She met his eyes defiantly, "Yes, I expect to do that. There's no reason I shouldn't. You can't be a monk for the rest of your life, so why not me? I've been totally honest with you all through this and I'm still honest. I've never made any effort to hide what I feel for you so you can't pretend to be surprised."  
  
"'The rest of your life' – Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that phrase? The rest of my life ... everyone has plans for it except me and I don't want it." He swung his cane viciously at the chair, sending it flying across the room before he mastered his anger. "However, you're right; I can't say that you haven't given ample warning of your intentions even though I've told you that part of my life is finished. - Tell me, doesn't it bother you at all that: one - I don't love you; two - I'm only half human; three – you'll be making an exhibition of yourself?"  
  
"You'll learn to love me; you are more human than any man I've ever known; and I've been on exhibition before. You can't scare me. What's more I don't believe you're done with what you call 'that part' of your life." She moved to where he stood, winding her white arms around his neck and drawing his face down to hers. "You might as well get used to kissing me. I'm very persistent."  
  
"I've noticed." He did not resist her advances but pulled her closer and opened her lips with his. When at length he raised his head, he looked at her closely and demanded, "What makes you think you'll want to have machina in your bed?"  
  
"It isn't machina, love, it's you. And – even if you won't believe it – I love you."  
  
Nooj abruptly slid his right hand inside the deep neckline of her blouse and cupped her breast. "You love. ... How would you react, lady, if I did with you what you are inviting, now – there on that bed?" He felt her nipple respond and was surprised at the sharp lash of desire that curled around his own loins.  
  
She caught her breath then closed her hand over his, holding him against her bared skin. Her voice trembled slightly as she retorted, "I've been trying to seduce you for more than a month. Do you really think I would resist you if you made love to me? Even here; even now?"  
  
"It wouldn't be love," he muttered darkly under his breath, and then continued aloud. "I give up. It doesn't look like I can stop you from moving into the house you and the Council have prepared; after all, you own it. What happens after that - will happen. But remember I won't always be this circumscribed in my actions. ...And I expect you'll tire of your adventure soon enough." He released her and turned away.  
  
She leaned against his back, arms around him, her hands spread like starfish on his chest, her head nuzzling between his shoulders. "You'll see, won't you? Now tell me your sizes so I can order some clothes for you to wear in our house."  
  
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The townhouse in Bevelle that had been purchased for the Hero of Mount Gagazet was a roomy and comfortable place, by all accounts the largest private dwelling in the city. Originally erected as the home of a merchant prince, it had all the amenities anyone might need and with Al Bhed craftsmen refurbishing and updating all the mechanical devices, there was little reason for complaints. The lifts worked perfectly; the kitchens were supplied with both cooks and cooks' impedimenta to make feeding the large contingent which was to move in easy and convenient. The front of the basement was devoted to the housing and supply needs of the servants. A large contingent of Hypello - members of that odd race with the vaguely insectoid features and the bluish skin which had managed to survive by making itself indispensable to the more bellicose clans – had been hired and would sleep there except for the few who would be needed on the top floor around the clock to attend to the requirements of the master. The basement was also the location of the food preparation areas, the firing range and some training facilities for the armed force that would provide privacy and security for the principal inhabitants. The first floor held the reception rooms, the dining room and other public places as well as - in the back, behind a baize door- housing adequate for the small army of attendants, guards, trainers and so on.  
  
The second floor had been gutted and turned into a state of the art rehabilitation center with every exercise device the Al Bhed could dream up, a massage room, special baths and the separate 'meditation' room Nooj had requested for his exclusive use with both a private lock and extensive sound-proofing. This room would serve for him the same purpose as his private place in his homeland. The walls of the meditation room were lined with books and leather furnishings were carefully arranged near heavy tables and lamps. There was both a full-length couch – specifically constructed to accommodate Nooj's height - and a large desk with locking drawers. Heavy draperies hid the windows and kept the room restfully dim on the brightest of days.  
  
On the top floor was the master's private apartment. This floor was designed as a wide rectangle with a sitting room in the center connecting by a short corridor to the lift. On the left side, as you faced the front of the house were Nooj's rooms: a large bed-room, a dressing room and a bath especially developed for his particular needs by the Al Bhed engineers. To the right was a similar, somewhat less expansive suite, that LeBlanc had furnished for her own use. The common room was supplied with tables and chairs so that it could be used for meals, entertaining, or simply relaxing. A large, lavishly cushioned divan was the centerpiece, placed to command the excellent view from the central window and its balcony. All the furniture, except that in LeBlanc's suite had been chosen and, where necessary, modified to make it possible for Nooj to use it without undue effort.  
  
Clustered near the lift shaft were several small rooms for as yet undefined purposes; it had been assumed that the two fierce individuals who would live on this level would quickly find a use for more space. This floor was open only to its residents and their servants. The Hypello would care for the area as a whole and Nooj in particular while LeBlanc was to bring a single maid to attend her personal needs. All had been overseen by the Maesters when they finally agreed to release their prize to what amounted to a half-way house. The combined talents of the Council and the Syndicate left nothing to chance.  
  
LeBlanc had actually purchased the house, although that was as yet not widely known; she had also provided most of the modifications after consulting with Nooj. He was unaware of the purpose behind the many questions she posed him, thinking that she was only attempting to divert him from his increasing impatience with his velvet imprisonment in the hospital. The result was that the second floor could be easily transformed from therapy to exercise when required so that he need not make public appearances until he was ready.  
  
The Maesters had protested that no practice in weapons' use was necessary for their trophy; he was not meant to return to battle and thus his priorities should lie in the fields of diplomacy and oratory. Nooj had rejected that suggestion instantly and with prejudice. Therefore, the makings of a fully equipped gymnasium and martial training facility were stored in the basement, ready to be installed when the therapy apparatus was done with. At least, that was the idea; Nooj had quietly ordered that the second floor was to be made immediately ready for its second use as well as its first.  
  
Nooj had arrived early in the morning, before the sun was up. A last minute interview with Mounfar had laid out the parameters of his release. He had been required to renew and enlarge his oath to the Obermaester, promising that he would remain quietly in the city until a time to be specified later; in return, the priest had sworn to leave him alone and not interfere with his activities so long as they did not constitute a threat to the order of the Council. It was intended that his presence in the house be secret; worshipping crowds were not yet part of the Maesters' schemes. They had carefully leaked the information that he still lived to a select few, knowing those who could be counted on to spread the news in a manner that could not be traced back. Plans to present him to the world as a miraculously revived symbol of the unparalleled, merciful powers of the Church and the inspiration for the eventual defeat of Sin would be made final as soon as seemed feasible. This pale, bespectacled man with the awkward, halting gait was not what they wanted the masses to see just yet. Another half-year in the townhouse should prepare him for his debut as the Truly Undying hope of Spira.  
  
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The therapy floor was bustling with activity. Mats were placed with exact precision and then moved to be repositioned exactly. The machines, which would mechanically exercise the body, were checked and recalibrated. Al Bhed engineers, green eyes glittering, were swarming like a disturbed nest of Ocelli. Beclem stood in the midst of the chaos, directing the placement of a rack of firearms.  
  
"Get those swords out of here; we won't be using them. Not for a while, if ever," he shouted to a small group of Crusaders who were setting up the armament section of the floor.  
  
"What about the knives?"  
  
"OK. Leave them. They may be useful. No! Take those mats down to the firing range. Where? In the basement, you idiot. The body armor goes over there"  
  
"When will the captain get here, Beclem?" It was one of the squadron.  
  
"He's here already - upstairs but don't forget to keep your mouth shut. Nobody except us is supposed to know he's here. In case you don't follow the news, this is supposed to be a secret. Top secret."  
  
As he spun around to check the alarm system, Beclem became aware of a figure at the door to the staircase. Nooj stood there, leaning heavily on his cane as he took in the activity.  
  
"So this is where I learn to be a Warrior again?"  
  
"Why didn't you use the lift?" Beclem was flushed with impatience and concern.  
  
"The reason for my being here is to recover and attain a certain degree of agility, is it not?" Nooj's voice was strained. He swayed slightly but regained his balance almost at once. Beclem rushed to his side, arm ready to catch him.  
  
"Get away from me," it was a soft snarl. "I can manage; I must manage. Leave me alone."  
  
Silently the crew of technicians and workmen turned back to their work. The Crusaders had long since learned and the engineers were learning to avoid the man when he was in this sort of mood. Beclem pretended to check the balance of a throwing knife while Droga dry-fired a freeze gun.  
  
When Nooj turned back to the staircase with the obvious intent of continuing his inspection of the house, Beclem soundlessly followed him. On the first floor, the two men made the circuit of the various rooms, Nooj mentally filing away locations as he painfully moved from the dining room to the library to the game room. Finally, he paused and sank into a chair near the card table. Beclem, who had propped himself discreetly against the far wall, looked at his old friend and leader with considerable concern. Nooj's face was blanched and there was the sheen of moisture on his forehead. His hand on the arm of the chair trembled; it seemed to be requiring enormous effort just to sit upright. Beclem saw the tendons standing out in his captain's throat just as his eyes closed and he slumped to the left.  
  
Springing to the alarm button, one of several installed on each floor, Beclem frantically summoned help. Two healers were in the room almost immediately, bending over the unconscious man checking his pulse, raising an eyelid.  
  
"It's just a faint. Too much exertion too soon." One of the healers cast a quick revive spell and the sharp reek of ammonia filled the room. Nooj's eyes flickered open as he became aware of the furor around him. Coughing from the fumes, he struggled to pull himself straight in the chair shrugging off Beclem's arm.  
  
"Let go of me; I'm all right," he rasped. "This is stupid; I don't need this." The healers tactfully stepped back, watching carefully to make sure they were no longer needed.  
  
"Captain, listen to me. You can't do it all at once. Take it slower. Remember how we used to train the boys in the squad. Slow and steady. Build the strength slow and steady. You're just out of that hospital place – that prison - and we can move at our own pace here just like we used to at home. There's no hurry. Tomorrow is soon enough to start the hard training."  
  
"You're probably right. It's been a busy day already and I have to confess I'm not quite back to my usual vigor. I'll just sit here and rest for a little longer and go upstairs to my room."  
  
"That's good," there was a pause as Beclem considered, "When is her ladyship moving in?"  
  
Nooj glared suspiciously at his lieutenant from beneath his brow. "How did you learn she was coming here? I didn't tell you."  
  
With a blush, the trainer replied, "It's pretty well known that the Obermaester gave her permission. Anyway, you know her motto."  
  
Nooj waved the healers away dismissively. "I am constantly surprised at the speed with which gossip travels in Bevelle. LeBlanc will be here tomorrow evening. Why?"  
  
"Well, I was just thinking it might be a good thing for you to take tomorrow off, rest, like... Stay on the top floor all day and relax. I'll send her up when she arrives and you can amuse yourself and we'll start the real work the day after when you are more...."  
  
"Stop! That's quite enough. ...You made your understanding of the situation clear back before we came here. I don't intend to explain things to you any further.... Though I do have to admit that you're right about the training. And the prison. From one prison to another, eh, old friend? From the hospital to this mansion and we're still not free to go where we like, do as we please. Mounfar has made it obvious that the promise he extracted from me in the hospital still holds; it was one of his conditions for my release. Beclem, I don't know when I'm going to be rid of that man and his demands. Let's abandon this whole project and run for home." Anjh abruptly stopped himself. "...All right, I've pushed too hard and acted like an idiot. If you're going to be my trainer, I'll have to learn to listen to you. Now, will you give me your arm? I'm going to try out my new meditation room. Yes, this time I'll use the lift. I don't have to learn the same thing twice." 


	9. Chapter Three Conclusion

Chapter Three -Conclusion  
  
Far from Bevelle in the small city called Guadosalam, LeBlanc was supervising her servants as they packed her belongings for the move to the townhouse.  
  
"No, Tavia, I shan't need all that formal wear. I'm going to be a nurse of sorts not a socialite." A private smile lighted her face at the thought of the one she intended as her patient. With a quick dancing turn, she escaped to her study and closed the door, leaving the remainder of the packing to the discretion of her household.  
  
Still beaming to herself, she coiled up on the window seat and gave her mind over to the thoughts that bubbled in her as irrepressible as sparkling wine.  
  
"I'm going to live with Nooj! After all these years, I'm actually going to live in the same house, on the same floor and -if I have anything to do with it – in the same room, the same bed." She hugged herself, "He's grounded and needs me and I'm going to be there."  
  
She remembered the few times he had touched her. The pressure of the cold, unyielding black hand was as tangible on her flesh in memory as it had been in reality. Every man she had known intimately had treated her as if she would shatter at a touch. She supposed it was her fragile appearance– the white skin, gilt hair and narrow limbs. Actually, she assured herself, she was quite strong, able to hold her own in most situations. But Nooj...she loved to think or say his name... was different - he respected neither her position nor her apparent delicacy. She could still hear his scornful inflection when he had said "...inherited the Syndicate." In fact, she doubted that he respected anything much anymore. She breathed deeply and pulled at the threads of her memory skein. The feel of his lips was still fresh on hers. She loved his mouth, his tongue.... She tasted him in her mind and quivered at the immediate reaction of her body before she shook herself. It would take hours for her to dwell on his every feature. And tonight was coming.  
  
LeBlanc was no fool nor was she a romantic. She was a woman of experience who had clawed her way into the business elite of Spira until she had genuinely earned the position left her by her parent. Managing the largest conglomerate on the continent was excellent preparation for the new challenge she was about to undertake. She did not underestimate the problem of healing the spirit of one so horribly broken, so dreadfully damaged as Nooj but she had decided, upon seeing him lying helpless and – yes - dead in the operating theatre, that he was the man she wanted as her life companion - and she was not one to shrink from the impossible. If it required her to submerge her strength and be led, to be subservient for a time – well, she could do that. She had an assortment of tools ready to her hand; she could tempt him with her body, with bits of carefully hoarded news from the opposing camp, with a refuge and the opportunity to regain his strength and skills. She tittered nervously at her thoughts. Here she was planning to train him like a house pet, luring him to her bidding by offering treats as a reward.  
  
No, that wasn't the way. She didn't want a pet; she wanted a lover, a companion – she wanted the man she had lusted for before she knew him, the man she had come to respect and love as she had watched his stoic struggle with the pain and humiliations he faced on a daily basis as he tried to recover. LeBlanc buried her face in her hands and shuddered at the realization of what he must be constantly suffering now the world was so irrevocably changed for him. She was not repulsed in the least by his ghastly wounds and the prostheses that had preserved his life. They seemed to underline his uniqueness and make him even more desirable in her eyes but she could not ignore the fact that he was deeply depressed by his transformation. There had to be a way to reassure him, to show him it didn't matter to her.  
  
Then, too, there was the information she had garnered from her agents on the Council. Kinoc was creating something he called the Crimson Squad, which he intended to use to increase his influence by cleaning out one of the most dangerous enemy nests of the War – the Den of Woe. That was the sort of gossip that would amuse a former Warrior, divert him from excessive brooding even if he couldn't think of being a part of it, of ever taking to the field again. They could make a game of calculating the chances of success. She sighed happily as she was briefly lost in a dream of comfortable domesticity and amiable arguments.  
  
Still, the very first thing to do when she arrived at Bevelle was to assess his mood, his spirit and attune herself to his needs. That would be a new ploy for her; it had been years since she had been required to consider seriously anyone's needs save her own, not since she had secured her position in the world of commerce. She found herself wondering what she would see in his face when she was alone with him on that third floor she had so carefully prepared.  
  
"Ah," she breathed as she unwound from the cushions. "At least, I don't have long to wait to see what'll happen. I'll be there this evening and I'll know everything then. I hope he won't resent me for being so open with him, telling him what I feel. If he really doesn't want me, I'll leave him alone ... if I can. No, I can't even bear to think of that. He has to at least desire me, even if he doesn't love me yet. He will; he has to. I know he wanted me day before yesterday in his room. I could tell, in spite of what he said.... This is so different for me; already I know that it won't be the same because I've never felt this way before, this need, this hunger, ... I truly believe I love him."  
  
She thought about the life-sized statue in her bedroom, placed so that she could easily see it from her pillow. It had been commissioned from a sculptor who had made his name working from images captured on spheres and portrayed Nooj as he had been before Mount Gagazet – at his zenith and whole. She supposed she would eventually have it updated but that seemed more than a little silly now when she was going to have the living man warm and accessible. "It's like a fairy tale when the magic godmother brings the stone image to life." She giggled giddily at the thought. "Maybe someday he'll like to meet his idealized self."  
  
Humming happily, she gathered up a few books to add to her luggage.  
  
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This had probably been a mistake, all day alone up here, nothing to do but dwell on his deficiencies. The tall man at the window stared morosely out at the busy streets three floors below. Limping carefully over to the large chair pulled up to the view he sat down heavily and manually lifted his left foot to the hassock placed conveniently near.  
  
It had been a very long day, so far. He had wakened earlier than he intended, bedeviled by the nightmares which seemed destined to inhabit his dreams since that night in the hospital. He kept seeing his father's face and hearing his father's curse as he relived the battle that had killed the older man and left his son with the obligation of leadership and a cognomen which was a burden in itself. "Undying"! Indeed! It was harder than it might seem to carry such a name, to continue such a legacy. Added to the harrowing images that haunted him waking and sleeping was the suspicion that had lately taken root in his mind. Nooj found himself wondering if he had left his father's side that fatal day for a reason more sinister than the one to which he had clung during the intervening years. Had he purposely abandoned Biyonne to his death? Had his resentment finally reached the point at which he had deliberately acted to end his father's life? He had told himself that he had run to kill the Mages who were turning the battle against the forces of Spira; that explanation had been unhesitatingly accepted by the Crusaders, who had been there, and all the others who had heard the tale. Nowhere had there been a whisper of scandal. Not until now – when the whisper was his own in his own mind and conscience. Now, when there was no possibility of proving his motives – good or ill – he was beleaguered by doubts. He had finally made the admission that he had hated his father; had that hatred led to the actions that had doomed the man? He didn't know but feared it was likely. Pasir might have been able to absolve him back when it had just happened but now it was too late, too many years had passed and both he and the Elder had grown too old for easy answers. While he had been active in the field, he had been able to keep such thoughts as these at bay – it was only his enforced leisure that permitted them to rise to the surface like the bloated corpses of forgotten enemies.  
  
Nooj tossed his head back impatiently, the lock of hair beside his face whipping against the chair. He was restless and yearned to pace the room, to stride with long steps, burning his excess energy. But it was so difficult to get to his feet again and pacing, striding were impossibilities at least until he had mastered the use of the machina leg that now hobbled him. He shifted his position impatiently – nothing was going as he had expected. When he threw himself before the body of the Summoner and saw the blow coming toward him from the great Unknowable, Sin, he had expected death; in that blazing instant when he saw the impact of the blow, his arm gone, his chest exploded, he knew he was dead. And then the damnable Al Bhed surgeon engineers with their new toys to test... a heart better than original equipment, a lung that was larger and more efficient than the old and the limbs... the abominable limbs that weighed on and dragged at him every conscious moment. In addition there was the pain - that unrelenting pain that echoed and augmented the agony he had experienced in the second before his death when the tortured nerves had shrieked as they were torn apart and he had heard his own dying scream. The loathing he had felt from the beginning flared in him again and he cursed the name and family of every surgeon who had touched him. Fairness, he grimly reminded himself, must also visit Spira's rulers with blame for his current state. They had agreed to let him be used as an experiment because they, too, wanted something from him. LeBlanc had told him that they wanted his fame and charisma to inoculate them from the accusations that they had run the War badly. According to her information (she was well positioned in the government and knew many of their secrets – more, probably, than they realized), he was not to return to the War but was to serve as a sort of icon of victory to be carted around for inspirational purposes. They wanted to make him into a flag, a banner to distract attention from their failures. Be damned to them; he would die in with a sword in his hands like his father before him. A career as a symbol was no life for a Warrior; it was shameful, unthinkable.  
  
Well, she would be here shortly and would possibly have fresher news about the intentions of that unholy crew. Suddenly, he realized that it was nearly evening and LeBlanc would be arriving at any moment. He pushed up from the deep chair with some difficulty and called for his Hypello attendants.  
  
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Some little time later Nooj stepped from the hydro-shower that the Al Bhed had designed for him, the one that would clean his human skin and not damage the machina implanted in his body. He had avoided mirrors since his experience in the hospital when repugnance with his non-living parts had so disgusted him that he had dropped his self-discipline and made an absolute fool of himself. He compelled himself to remember that night frequently so as to be protected against its repetition. Now, in a similar spirit, he forced himself to look into the mirror before him. He thought he looked older; there were new lines in his face but then he had always looked older than he was. Even as a boy, he had seemed mature beyond his years. Perhaps it was his eyes. By the time he was a man, he had seen more than he should have – his father's death, too many campaigns costing too many lives. He had seen too many fiends, too many Llyobs fall to his blade or explode from his projectiles. Now new lines were dug across his face - he had seen his own death. Still, strength was obvious in his form, the remaining muscles well defined again. He looked with distaste at the places where the machina joined his flesh and thought he should be grateful that there were no scars of any moment – the Al Bhed had managed to do their suturing in such a way that it was mostly covered by the synthetic skin marrying the mechanical to the human. The left shoulder was molded from a flexible material, which blended nearly invisibly at the base of his neck while the arm itself was formed of vaguely anatomically correct modules. The hand, being the most complicated of the modules was also the most machine-like but it was concealed by the glove that mimicked the shape of his other hand. The leg, he glared at the leg. Since a portion of his left thigh had remained intact, the attachment had not been as difficult as at the shoulder. A closely fitted articulated ceramic and metal sheath clasped the stump and tapered up to just below his waist serving as both support and armor. Barely discernible rivet-like rods held the sheath to the remaining bone underneath. The upper leg was a cylindrical unit with a sort of bare-bone knee inserted into the base and was connected by recessed cables to the pseudo-calf and foot. They had shaped those parts to look as much as possible like real limbs, but like the arm, with indifferent success. The colors, which had so dismayed him on his first critical look, had lost their blatant newness and were beginning to dull into a more acceptable appearance or perhaps he was growing accustomed to them. He looked as dispassionately as possible and still saw a discordant mixture of tissue and machine, repugnant to his eyes.  
  
"What will she see when she looks at me?" Nooj wondered with apprehension. "Am I a man to her; am I Nooj or merely the half-human lover she seeks out for the novelty?" He was not unaware of her adventures; in her blatantly open manner, she had made sure of that.  
  
He stood there trying to force himself to believe that it was not too bad, not too grotesque. Grotesque, that was the word that always came to him these days when he thought about his body - this freakish combination of nature and mechanics. How could a woman lie with this? He raised his cane and brought it down on the mirror, shattering the glass with a resounding crash. Instantly the Hypello were there, picking up the bits, clearing the floor.  
  
"Do you want to dreth now, Mathter" Their lisping voices enraged him but he held his temper knowing that they were what they were as he had become what he was. Instead, he moved to the wardrobe and looked though his choices, all too conscious of the irony of their selection by LeBlanc. Not the uniform, its tight fit made it too difficult to manage without the help of the Hypello, not a dressing gown, that kind of undress would convey just the wrong message. A cassock ... he drew out the loose garment that would cover him from the open lacing across his chest to his feet, a robe of a deep wine color with a gold cincture knotted at the waist. That was right, formal and dignified and easy to don and doff. It was meant to be worn over a long straight tunic but he had always preferred to have his chest bare if possible and so rejected the undergarment - no sense making things more complicated than they had to be. He would be able to judge her mood when he saw her and the cassock would not commit him to any action until he was certain. With a sort of despairing self-mockery, he realized that he could not tolerate much more pity and humiliation. Although rationally, he had few doubts about the direction the evening would take, he was still reluctant to place his fragile ego at risk. In spite of her declarations of devotion, he was guarded and did not discount the idea that she was setting him up as a mark. If he offered and she rejected him, he felt he would fold up into himself like an armadillo and never emerge.  
  
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The buzzer sounded and the Hypello pressed the respond key.  
  
"Her ladythhip is on the way up."  
  
Nooj drew a deep breath; he felt as though he had been running but that was clearly an illusion since his breathing was as mechanically regulated as his heartbeat. He struggled to his feet and, hearing the sound of the lift, moved to stand with his back toward the door to his room. He would appear to be just entering the common room when she came in, he thought, taking a firmer grip on the loathed cane. If only...  
  
The door from the lift opened and LeBlanc stood framed in the entrance. She was wearing her usual style of garment, all ribbons and flowing softness, the front deeply cut exposing much of her breasts. The short loose curls clustered about her head glowed like a nimbus against the darkness of the corridor as she swept in with her usual air of delighted anticipation and directed the maid trailing her toward the third door in the room before turning to the dark man watching her.  
  
"Are the accommodations as you wished, love? Have you seen the entire house?" Without pausing for his answer she glided toward him, her narrow white hands held out in greeting.  
  
They stood, not touching, the tension building between them. This was nothing like the other times they had been alone together. A globe of stillness enclosed them in a private space beyond the reality of the room and its contents. Nooj felt overwhelmed by the closeness of her, by the aura of electricity she seemed to project. He thought that if he dared to touch her actual sparks would fly about the room, consuming the parts of his body Sin had left intact. Gradually, time resumed and he could move and breathe again. Then, she stretched up toward him, her face glowing and he saw a wildness, a glitter in her eyes and bent to meet her lips.  
  
Now it was LeBlanc whose breath came with shallow quickness – almost panting. She pressed against him and inhaled with a little hiss. He lifted his head and, his arm around her waist, drew her into his bedroom. The abandoned cane fell to the floor as the door closed with a decisive click. 


	10. Chapter Four

Chapter Four  
  
He hardly realized that he was leaning against her shoulder for his balance as they crossed to the high bed that dominated the room. Everything had seemed possible once more when he had touched her and felt the embrace returned. The months since Mount Gagazet had become no more than a nightmare while this moment was the dream.  
  
LeBlanc turned to face him and, lifting his left hand, her eyes half- closed, kissed the black glove. The cold flexibility of the hand excited her as she placed it on her breast. Nooj could not feel her nipple harden against the machina palm but he could feel her hair feathery against his cheek and her lips warm against his chest. He gently closed his hand and heard the sudden intake of her breath as she twined her arms around his back and pulled him toward her.  
  
"Wait," he said, pushing her away a little. With the powerful grip the Al Bhed had given him, he grasped her dress and, with a single movement, ripped it from her and tossed it across the room. She wore nothing beneath.  
  
"Yes," she panted moving back into his arms, feeling his heat and coldness together against her flesh through the thin fabric of his garment. The entire surface of her skin had become acutely sensitive; she felt every fiber of his cassock against her tingling flesh. Her head reeled as she staggered, clutching at his wide shoulders. Currents of desire swept across her and she felt faint with her need for this man. Pressing ever closer, she tried to become part of him, to merge with him.  
  
He moved his hands to her upper arms and took a half step back so that he could look at her. The whiteness of her skin dazzled him like the sun striking off snow. He seemed to have never seen anything so white, so brilliantly white. The triangle at the base of her belly glittered like a gilded cup and he was blinded by the incandescence of her body. Inwardly, he struggled with the reins of the discipline that his training had made instinctive. It had been so long...  
  
LeBlanc never shifted her eyes from his as she found the lacings at the neck of the cassock and, untying them, slipped the garment from his shoulders. He hesitated, a sudden fear of how she would respond when she saw him naked before her sending coldness through his veins. Then she moved against him, running her hands down his body, trembling with her need, arching her back so that her erect nipples just touched his chest. She raised her arms and pulled his head down to her parted lips. And it was all right again; everything became a dream, time fluctuating like a strobe.  
  
Nooj took possession of her mouth with authority, tasting her sharp sweetness. She moaned as she drew his tongue deeper with her own and fell back onto the bed, pulling him with her. Intoxicated with her taste, he abandoned her lips for her body, marking a path from her throat to her breasts with his lips, his hands spanning her waist and bending her toward him.  
  
She felt with increasing excitement the touch of the cold black-gloved hand on her skin. Her fingers slid caressingly down his broad chest, tracing the line between flesh and machina as she reached for him. His penis was flaccid in her hand and she whimpered with surprise, looking questioningly into his face.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked hoarsely, his hand quiet on her breast. His entire body was ablaze from her touch and it required all his control to wait the moment for her answer.  
  
"More than ever in my life." Her voice was clotted with passion but absolutely certain.  
  
Nooj let his mind relax the bonds that had constrained him. He heard her gasp as his organ swelled in her grasp and then it was half dream. He parted her legs and penetrated her. She cried out as she felt him in her body. He was far larger than she had thought; it was too much. Then she seemed to open and, instead of pain, pleasure suffused her, heating and consuming her like a sun radiating from within. She abandoned all attempts at rational thought and let her passions command her. Winding her white leg around the hard smooth hip of her lover, she strained against him with all her strength.  
  
LeBlanc's little mewling cries sang in his ears as he moved urgently within her. It had been so long since he had been with a woman and this one was so adroit and passionate he knew that he would not be able to prolong the act as he usually could. He had not even tried to re-establish the controls he knew he should be using. This was his moment of fulfillment, his reward for the past weeks, his gift from a grateful Spira. At that instant, he sensed her climax approaching and permitted his own. And then it was all dream again.  
  
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"Why did you make me wait so long?" LeBlanc murmured into his chest as she lay sprawled across his body.  
  
He didn't answer, only tightening his arm around her with a wordless shushing sound. He was content to feel the buzz of her lips against him as she spoke, to breath in the fragrance of her skin. Her response had been surprising. He knew that she had said she wanted his body but that had seemed a joke, a mocking way to prod him into a reaction in those darkest of his days. Perhaps she had spoken only the truth, that there was something about him, broken as he was, that touched her desires, stoked her passions. The fleeting impulse to father his son upon her crossed his mind, only to be instantly suppressed. He would not, could not, do that without her consent and understanding. She would have to be told all that bearing his child, particularly a boy, entailed and he had to be sure that this night was not just a momentary aberration on her part.  
  
He raised himself on his right elbow and looked at her, all of her, as she lay loose-limbed in her fulfillment, her eyes half-closed, her breath slow and even. With his insensate hand, he began to stroke her rhythmically from breast to hip. She turned toward him lazily, seeking his body, running her tongue along the path on his smooth chest, the border between feeling and numbness. Once again, he felt that strange sensation of almost feeling from a place where there was no possibility of feeling, that almost sensed touch which excited him more than any other.  
  
LeBlanc's eyes fluttered open and her hands continued the caress her mouth had begun. With intense care, she explored him, touching every part of his body with increasing excitement. He thought he could feel her fingers on his arm, his leg, his groin and beyond. In a welter of sensation, he could no longer distinguish what he actually felt and what he wanted so desperately to feel. With a groan, he moved inside her again and felt her encompass his length in her warmth.  
  
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Again they lay closely entwined, their desires sated. This time had lasted longer, much longer and ended in an explosion of such intensity as to leave the both of them drained. His arm and leg imprisoned her and she wriggled happily, snuggling ever closer and surveying him from under her eyelashes. He seemed asleep with closed eyes and regular breathing.  
  
"I love you," she whispered. It was barely a sound, more of an exhalation.  
  
Nooj heard her. He was not asleep but it served his purposes to let her think so. He did not want to talk at this time, particularly not about love, which played no part in his philosophy. In other relationships, he had learned that love did not always mean what it seemed – that lovers needed to learn a common language before communication could truly begin. In spite of her protestations, he still entertained the possibility that he was merely her latest novelty. No, this night was his; he had earned it.  
  
In his mind and body he was relishing the sensation of completeness, of normalcy that had eluded him since he woke into his new and unwelcome life. He was seized with a flood of gratitude toward the woman who had made this possible, who had given him this gift. For the first time in years, he actually contemplated a future – even one as close as the coming morning – and the next night. Tightening his arm about her, he let himself drift into the sleep that lurked just on the edge of his mind.  
  
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She loved the look of the black glove against her white skin. Shivering deliciously, she surreptitiously watched it move across her breasts, pausing to gently tweak a nipple then continuing its journey in the dim light of the early morning. She tried to remain perfectly still so that he wouldn't stop but found it impossible.  
  
"Open your eyes, LeBlanc. I know you're awake." There was an unfamiliar laugh in his voice.  
  
She squeezed her lids more tightly shut. "If I wake up, you'll stop."  
  
"I won't stop. Promise."  
  
"You can stop if you promise..."  
  
"Promise what?"  
  
"You know..."  
  
Nooj laughed aloud. "I promise." His hand brushed against the golden fleece and did not stop.  
  
"Not that" she slid her own hand between them and reached, "This."  
  
"Ah" He sighed deeply as he moved decisively toward her. "I don't want to hurt you."  
  
"It's all right. I want..." her voice tapered off into a long cooing moan.  
  
The two figures merged into one and there were no more words nor need for them.  
  
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When she woke again, she was alone in the bed. She stretched luxuriously like a cat and burrowed more deeply into the gloriously rumpled nest of the sheets. She felt wonderful and triumphant, content to the limits of her ability to feel happiness.  
  
"Here I am where I wanted to be – in Nooj's bed," she chortled as she hugged herself. "He finally stopped resisting me and I think he's glad of it. I certainly tried to make him happy."  
  
Smiling privately as the memory of the night and the morning danced in her mind, she recalled his touch; he was so much more than she had fantasized: strong, tender, fierce, gentle. It had been worth the wait – more than worth it. She had him, now if only she could keep him. LeBlanc breathed deeply, inhaling his scent from the bedding. She was immediately aroused again.  
  
"I'm afraid I'm addicted to him," she giggled behind her hand. "How can I possibly wait for tonight? Don't suppose he'll come back to bed again this morning. It would be fun if he did. No, rethink that – I don't think I could survive another round with him right now. ... There's always tonight. I wonder if he impregnated me – it's my fertile time and I didn't try to avoid it. I wouldn't mind having his child; he'd have to stay with me then..."  
  
She had felt so small in his embrace – like a pet or a toy that he cuddled for comforting companionship. No, more than companionship, she reminded herself; he was no querulous child in his passions but a lion of a man, possessing her completely in every sense. Not just her body but also her very soul had responded to him, belonged to him. The memory of his caresses continued to enflame her and she clutched them as she had held the man himself only a few hours before. Her eyes lost their focus as she re- created the events that she had dreamed about for so long.  
  
All at once, a powerful sense of misgiving seized her. Had she told him about the Crimson Squad, that group formed to reconstitute the Crusaders? She had meant to keep that tidbit for another time but, in the night, his blandishments might have gotten the news from her. She couldn't remember. There were too many other memories in the way and she had been drunk on desire the entire night. Dismissing her doubts, she snuggled into the nest he had made and returned to her delicious recollections 


End file.
